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GUILTY 


THE MAGAZINE-GUN TRAGEDY 



The Deadly Magazine Gun. 



THE BANDIT QUARTETTE. 





ec»t 










“THE CURSED SPELL THAT BROUGHT ME HERE.” 



GUILTY 


THE MAGAZINE-GUN TRAGEDY 


BY 

ROy/e.] NORTON and WM. C. HALLOWELL 


A STRONG MORAL GRAPHICALLY DRAWN 

Complete and accurate history depicting the life and deeds of the 
notorious car-barn bandits, the desperate struggle at the dug-out, the 
flight over the Indiana dunes, the capture, surrender and trial, 
with an article by Jno. L. Whitman, the famous “ man 
tamer,*’ and a pathetic letter from Mrs. Van Dine 


Over Thirty Pen-drawings and Half-tones from Original Photographs 

PORTRAITS WITH AUTOGRAPH SIGNATURES OF 

Jailer Whitman, Chief O’Neill, Asst. Chief Schuettlkr and 
Detective Blaul, the captor of Marx. 



shall be judged not by 'what xve might 
have been, but what we have beend* 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

APR 18 1904 

Cooyrlffht Entry 

CLASS XXc. No. 

5/ JT ^ 0 

COPY a 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1904, 
liy William H. Lke, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at 
Washington, D. C. 


ft • • 
• ft 
ft ft • 





CONTENTS 



Chapter 

PAGE 


I. 

The Car-barn Hold-up, .... 

. II 


11 . 

Crime-ridden Chicago Appalled, 

. iS 


III. 

School-room to Murderer’s Row, . 

. 23 


IV. 

Seeking Big Game, ..... 

. 30 


V. 

Life Becomes Cheaper — An Ice-box Job, 

. 39 

VI. 

Hold Up Gorski’s Saloon, .... 

. 48 


VII. 

Van Dine plans to Kill an Old Friend, 

. 58 


VIII. 

Study Car-barns — Decide to Rob Rogers Park, 

. 70 


IX. 

The Escape from the Car-barns, 

. 79 


X. 

Jackson Park at Dawn — Dividing the Money, 

. 86 


XI. 

The Meeting Next Day — Reading the Papers, 

. 94 


XII. 

Roeske and Whiskey Thwart Train Hold-up, . 

. 103 


XIII. 

Anxious Days, ...... 

. Ill 


XIV. 

Schuettler’s Clews — The Man with the Magazine Gun, 1 18 


XV. 

The Killing of Detective Quinn, 

. 124 


XVI. 

The Confession — Story of Many Crimes, 

. 133 


XVII. 

Marx’s Sworn Statement, .... 

. 140 


XVIII. 

The Plot to Blow up Police Station, 

. 145 


XIX. 

The Alarm and Flight, . ... 

• 154 


XX. 

Life in the Dug-out, ...... 

. 164 


XXI. 

Chicago Excited — Fears of Mob, 

. 170 


XXII. 

Surprised at Dawn, ..... 

. 176 


XXIII. 

The Battle at the Dug-out, .... 

. 187 


XXIV. 

Cornshocks are Poor Forts, .... 

. 197 


XXV. 

Confessions of Van Dine and Niedermeier, 

. 211 


XXVI. 

Other Murders by Niedermeier, 

. 218 


XXVII. 

Dramatic Scenes Follow, 

. 225 


XXVIII. 

“I’ll Marry You on the Gallows,” 

. 231" 


XXIX. 

Speedy Punishment Planned 

. 236 


XXX. 

Niedermeier Offers Guard Bribe . , . 

. 242 


XXXI. 

The Trial and Conviction — “Guilty I ” . 

. 249 




INTRODUCTION 


T he purpose of this book is not the mere telling of the startling 
deeds of a cowardly quartette of bandits, whose short and bloody 
career disgusted and shocked the entire civilized world : on the 
contrary its object is to give, in such a manner as to point its own 
moral, an accurate account of one of the most startling dramas ever 
recorded in the annals of criminal history. 

The record of these four young men should startle every parent and 
awaken every guardian of youth ; awaken them to the fact that mere 
environment in itself will not suffice to guard the young from wayward 
paths. One or two of these young murderers had been reared by God- 
fearing parents, surrounded by excellent home envii'onments, and yet 
by degrees there was developed in them a type of felony that has 
scarcely been equalled in the history of the world’s criminology. 

No greater warning could be given the boys of our country, no more 
wholesome lesson offered their parents, than an uncolored, truthful state- 
ment of the so-called “Car-barn Bandits.” It is not only the story of 
the scum of humanity, but it is the faithful record of boys of more than 
ordinary intelligence ; boys whose steps, one by one, led them away 
from parental control, led them through vicious associations, from mere 
boyifh pranks to rowdyism, from rowdyism to petty pilfering, from 
pilfering to thugism, and from that to cold, heartless, deliberate and 
wholesale murder ! 

One of these outlaws, Harvey Van Dine, was originally gifted with 
the attributes of mind and character which go to make men of mark. 
He was intelligent, quick, self-confident, fearless and bold, and 
endowed with a remarkable capacity for organization ; gifts which 
prompted him to offer his services to his country in its hour of peril, 
which should have been an incentive to the attainment of a high 
and honorable career. He possessed a physique that enabled him 
to bear without faltering, hardships and fatigues, which would have 
overcome the average man. These were the splendid talents that he 
debauched, these were the characteristics which enabled him to dominate 
his comrades in crime. 


VI, 


Introduction 


vii. 


No mother need say: “My boy could never fall so low.” True, 
perhaps, but remember that the most puzzling problem in connection 
with a study of Van Dine’s character, is that ^/lere never was at any 
time any need for hij?t to be otherwise than upright and manly. All 
men are tempted ; many fall through temptation, but Harvey Van Dine 
had no cause for yielding to temptation ; there was no real reason why 
he should have been dragged from a loving and affectionate mother’s 
care and a happy and cheerful home. 

The other young men were not born with talents so prominent, so 
promising, but they were all abundantly able to earn honest livings and 
become upr-ight and reputable citizens. 

No greater warning can be given to boys, young men and even 
adults, than that obtainable from the history of the bandit quartette. 
That v/arning is to avoid evil companions, to shun idleness, and to 
refrain from the first little step from the path of rectitude — a step which 
surely leads to utter demoralization of character, a step which can end 
in only one way — punishment. 

There is a power greater than the civil law which reaches out and, 
sooner or later, insists upon a balancing of accounts. It is that old, old, 
never-failing, immutable law of retribution. 

There can be no escape from the consequences of wrong-doing ; as 
surely as the sun rises and sets, no crime can escape ultimate retribution 
and punishment. “As a man soweth so also shall he reap.” “The 
wages of sin is death.” 

Crime is the result of a gradual process. “No one ever became very 
wicked all at once,” wrote Juvenal, but guilty secrets cannot be hid for- 
ever, and the punishment comes quick and fast. 

These misguided • youths may well say with the poet: “Do evil 
deeds thus quickly come to end ? ” 

A few short fleeting years of crime, a few paltry dollars, a few 
apparent successes, and these four young men, once so full of promise, 
await the sentence of outraged law and justice, await their just punish’ 
ment and the judgement of that Higher Court which has decreed, 

“Thou shall do no murder.” 

In the language of one of these bandits, “It does not pay to 
murder ; ” neither does it pay to violate any of the laws of God or man. 

THE AUTHORS. 


[ Written especially for this book. ] 


The Words of a Professional Criminologist 

JOHN L. WHITMAN, Jailer for Cook County. 


OFFICE OF 

THE JOHN L. WHITMAN 
MORAL IMPROVEMENT ASS N JOURNAL 
COOK COUNTY JAIL, 

CHICAGO, ILL. 

It has always been my contention that classification of criminals, 
or the grouping of lawbreakers according to the tendencies, inclinations, 
mental idiosyncrasies and personal peculiarities they hold in common 
with other criminals, is useless. As what might be termed a “profe.ssional 
criminologist” the conviction grov/s stronger in my mind year by year 
that each individual criminal is in a class by himself. 

Upon this line of reasoning my system of dealing with the unfortu- 
nates intrusted to my care has in a large measure been based. It has 
tatight us here in the Cook County jail, where we handle over 6,000 
prisoners a year, that there is not one man in hundred.s, no matter how 
low his degree of degradation, who cannot be “reached” by humaue and 
reasonable methods. 

Brutes whom blows or undue harshness would Incite to the point 
of committing murder even though they could not hope to be benefited 
thereby are found susceptible to certain kinds of moral treatment which 
makes for good even in cases where the subject is unconscious of the 
influences which have wrought the change in him. 

It was in accordance with this system that the so-called car-barn ban- 
dits— Peter Niedermeier, Harvey Van Dine and Gustav Marx — were 
received into the county jail to await trial for murder. 

At first they were careless and indifferent. Later they became morose 
and thoughtful. We soon found that they were of such narrow natures 
that their complete “taming” would require a longer period than was left 
for us before they would be taken into court, and as they became sullen 
and surly we decided to leave them to their own thoughts for the time 
being at least. 

They were unresponsive and unreceptive. Cowardly, yet desperately 
foolhardy, they offered greater problems than the trickiest, most hard- 
ened old timers of the calculating school. There seemed to be no rule 
to fit them. 

In a word they were in a group by themselves and each one of them 
in a class by himself. To attempt to influence their minds with a view to 
preparing them for the mysterious future would only have been to prompt 
open resentment. In fairness to them they were left to their own troubles 
during the trial. 

However, it is not impossible that a streak of humanity may yet be 
found in these three youthful characters, which will bring them under the 
influences that have brought many men under like circumstances to a full 
realization of what life really la. 


JOHN L. WHITMAN. 














THE CONFESSION OF NIEDERMEIER AND VAN DINE AFTER THE CAPTURE. 





THE FAMOUS DUG-OUT, SHOWING THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE “LAST FIGH 







VAN DINE 

IN ROUGHRIDER UNIFORM 


A Pathetic Story of Harvey Van Dine’s Life 


BY HIS MOTHER 


MR. HAIGHT. 


Chicago, November 26, 1903. 


Dear Sir; —‘When you came here last night I had not slept 
for two nights, and I could not readily give you connected ideas about 
Harvey’s lineage and his own childhood. I will endeavor to give you a 
slight outline, and if you wish to make use of it in your story, all right, if 
not no harm done. I also enclose two recent letters to me; they are pri- 
vate and I would rather that you would not publish them, only they tend 
to show what class of work has been my recreation in my leisure moments, 
for recreation it is, as much as a charity ball is for the wealthier class. I 
take pleasure in placing poor, 'foolish girls under state supervision. I 
have done work of that kind for many years; I have made a study of that 
class of feeble-minded children, and I, as well as others of the same mind, 
have been trying to get a bill dealing with that class of girls before the 
Legi.slature, and we hope to succeed next year. I do not make this state- 
ment to boast of my good work, but in order to give you an idea in what 
kind of a home Harvey has been. I have talked with many politicians on 
that subject, both here and in Springfield, and have always been given 
attention, even by the Governor. 

The earliest trace that my husband’s family have of their ancestors Is 
that a family by the name of Davenport fled from England to Holland, to 
escape religious persecution. There, one of the daughters married a man 
by the name of Adam Henry Van Duyue, now Americanized to Van Dine. 
They came to America and settled in New York, in the Dutch settlement. 
A James Harvey Van Duyne fought in the revolution; a son of the above 
lost his life in the war of 1812, leaving a son and daughter; the daughter 
married a cousin, also a James Harvey Van Duyne, who is the great- 
grandfather of my son Harvey; his son, also James Harvey, was wounded 
in the left lung in the Mexican war— the wotmd caused his death when my 
husband was five months old; his young wife, who was Kathrine Woods, 
followed him a year after; she died of a broken heart. The Van 
Duyne family left New York after the revolution, and went to Virginia, 
but Harvey’s grandfather settled in Newark, Ohio, after the Mexican war, 
and there my husband was born and, after his parents’ death, adopted by 
an old friend of grandma Woods, he came to Chicago in 1877, a*ud two 
years later we were married. I am a North German by birth, but was 
brought to Chicago at five years of age; my parents always lived on the 
Northside. I graduated from the Newberry school, on Willow and Orchard 
streets; I was taught to read and wi’ite German by my mother. On her 
side of the house I am related to Fritz Reuter, the greatest German dia- 
lect and folk story writer ever known; his name is honored wherever the 
German language is spoken. Prom my father's side of the house I spring 
fnmi the Pless family of Ivanak. Branches of that family gave Germany 
a Bismark and Von Molke; they are diplomats in peace and fighters in 
war. We hate red tape and restraint; ft is only when fate has siruck 
many hard blows that we submit. A kind word or even a pleading look 
will turn us, but an uncalled for rudeness will make us as stubborn as the 
hard-headed buffalo that is on our eoat-of-arms. I am not learned in such 
foolishness as heraldry, my life has been too full of real interest to bother 


IX. 


X. 


story of Harvey Van Vine's Life 


about dead and gone things, therefore I do not know where the buffalo 
head comes from, but If it has any I'eference to the stubbornness of our race 
it is rightfully placed, and Harvey has his share, and hot-headed and bold 
as he is, he may have used threats, as the police claim he did, and if driven 
to quarters that he thinks he would be deprived of his liberty, would 
make use of his strength and weapons, but if the police will withdraw 
and give mo a chance to reason with him, I believe I could make him see 
things in a different light— we love each other so dearly. From his baby- 
hood up one word from me would go farther than many lectures from 
other people. 

When he was four years old we^moved out to Highwood, now Fort 
Sheridan. My oldest child’s health was very delicate, and we thought 
country air and milk might benefit her. Harvey run wild there, but 
still his first thought was always for his sister and brother. He was 
younger than his sister, but so strong and sturdy that he looked older. I 
can see him now, when expecting grandma on the train, I would allow the 
three children to go to the corner; he would stand in the middle, his little 
legs braced, holding the other two by the skirts for fear they would run 
under the cars or ceime to harm, his sense of duty was so strong that he 
would itot allow them to stir from the corner even when they saw grandma 
coming. He would then attempt to carry grandma’s satchel, because he 
was mamma’s little man. Soon the soldiers 'came and of course he soon 
became acquainted with them; even the officers took an interest in the 
bold red-headed little boy; they taught hiin how to shoot and sing for 
them, but all things have an end, and when he was seven we came back to 
town, and the restraint was awful for him. He was never a bad boy, but 
it was dangerous to meddle with him. For instance, once when he was 
playing, one evening, he acccidectly, or perhaps by design, ran across the 
front lawn of a house opposite where wo lived; the lady v ho owned it was 
sprinkling, and in anger she turned the hose on hiju and wet him from 
head to foot; he deliberately walked up to her, took the hose and turned it 
on her, so that in a few minutes after, when I answered the door-bell, I 
saw two dripping mortals on my steps, each trying to explain, but on the 
other hand, there was not an animal or small baby in the block that did 
not like Harvey. One morning, going to school, he picked up a half dead 
kitten; it was an awful looking thing: half its hair gone. It was bald in 
spots, its eyes were clo.sed with matter and dirt; he begged so hard to keep 
it, saying that he w'ould do without his milk if I would only let him’keep 
it- He washed and fed that cat until it was well, and it grew into the 
biggest and handsomest Maltese cat I ever saw, and I could give you hun- 
dreds of such instances; his sympathy was always with the weakest. 

Now, Mr. Haight, you can suy what yon please, no one will ev'er make 
me believe that such a boy would commit deliberate and unprovoked 
murder. As I said before, he might kill in defense of bis life or principles. 
I can say of him, and all his schoolmates and associates will bear me out, 
he never lied; he always told the truth. He was not Iszy. He was ainbi- 
tlous and wanted to get to the top. In his heart I think he liad collt-ge 
ambitions also, but he never mentioned it. All our efforts were directed 
towards helping the younger brother; he was a member of the Y. M. C. A. 
until the first of November, and then he h:td to let it go bec.ause ho had 
no money to renew his card and he would not be beholden to any orie. I 
send this with my younge.st son, you can question him as much as you like. 

llespectfully, 

SOPHIE E. VAN DINE. 


The above letter was given to the authors by Mr. Haight, with per« 

mission to publish the same. 


G U I LT Y 

THE MAGAZINE-GUN TRAGEDY 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CAR BARN HOLD-UP HUMAN LIVES WEIGHED 

AGAINST CASH. 

As the last car, with its glimmering headlight pulled 
into the cavernous car-sheds of the City Railway Com- 
pany of Chicago, at 6ist and State streets, the cashier 
turned wearily to his desk and receipted the register 
handed in by an equally tired conductor. 

‘‘Glad my work’s over, Stewart,” said the conduc- 
tor, and then with a “Good-night” he disappeared into 
the darkness and silence surrounding the huge struct- 
ure, in the back of which forty other men had retired 
to their bunks for the night. 

Frank Stewart turned with renewed vigor to his task, 
thinking that in only a few minutes more his work too 
would be completed, and he likewise could seek the 
loving home he had left during the day. 

Before him in endless array rested piles of silver 
coin, sheaves of bills and an occasional stack of glitter- . 
ing yellow metal. Deftly and with practiced fingers he 
commenced the final count of the day’s receipts. 

( 11 ) 


12 


The Car Barn Hold-Up. 


As he steadily counted, William Biehl, the clerk, and 
receiver William B. Edmond, talked in languid tones 
of the day^s task. On this night of August thirtieth, 
1903, there hung over and added to the darkness of the 
night, a heavy fog sweeping in from the placid lake like 
a pall, which but a short distance away lapped peace- 
fully against its sandy shores. It was a somnolent 
night of brooding peace. No pedestrian’s footsteps 
stirred an echo in this isolated place. No clangor of 
early morning travel, no outward evidence of the com- 
mencement of a new day’s life in the great city which 
calmly reposed throughout this early hour. 

In the little office, conversation between the two idle 
men had fallen to fragmentary remarks, and Cashier 
Stewart, his task completed, prepared to tabulate the 
little fortune before him — the results of the day’s large 
traffic. 

“How much?” said Edmond, stretching his arms 
above his head and yawning. 

“Nearly thirty-five hundred,” came the absent- 
minded response, “and glad I am it is counted.” 

Again silence broken only by the clink of the coin 
being rolled into little paper receptacles, as the cashier 
concluded his toil. 

Clang! Smash! 



The scene of the car-barn tragedy 




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The Car Barn Hold-Up. 


15 


A heavy hand, bleeding from the minor cuts of 
broken glass was thrust through a window fronting 
State street, behind which Stewart was standing. 
Steadily the hand held a menacing weapon; steadily a 
voice called ‘‘Throw up your hands,” and then before 
the cashier, or his companions could reply, a fusilade 
of flying lead, poured with deadly accuracy from flame- 
spouting weapons filled the room. 

Excitement, confusion, smoke-laden atmosphere, 
the sound of hurrying feet without, of moaning men 
within and a deadly six minutes begun with turmoil, 
was to be ended with robbery and murder. Resound- 
ing blows rained upon the partition with a sledge 
hammer; a voice shouted: “Hit the door, you fool — 
hit the door,” and with another crash the door gave 
way. An inrush of feet, then a second shot, with 
the same deadly aim. The last victim, James Johnson, 
a motorman, aroused by this pandemonium from his 
sleeping place on a rear bench, had with drowsy bewil- 
derment emerged from the gloom in time to receive 
through the forehead the steel-tipped messenger of 
death. He fell without a groan. 

Within the room, Stewart, faithful to the last, was 
dragging himself toward a burglar alarm, to issue a 
last appeal for aid. Another shot and his determined 


16 


The Car Barn Hold-Up. 


effort was ended. Near him, wallowing in overturned 
trays of smaller coin, Edmond, with the vain hope of 
beating off these merciless assassins, made a feeble 
effort to reach a weapon. Another shot and his strug- 
gles were at an end. Behind him, inert, huddled and 
collapsed, Biehl rested in a gruesome heap, his life 
blood slowly spreading out into a little pool of 
unheeded crimson. 

Stewart, probably unconscious of effort, but with 
vitality still throbbing through his grievously wounded 
body, feebly raised himself upon his elbow. An 
agile form bounded into the death laden room, and 
vengefully kicked him in the face and he fell back 
motionless. 

The swift figure, the only one in that chamber of 
death whose movement attested life, hurriedly seized 
the heaped-up money, with calmness tested the weight 
of the coin but abandoned it as to heavy for a speedy 
flight. Carelessly turning he viewed the work of death, 
and then started toward the exit. The glitter of a 
beautiful weapon clutched in the grip of the uncon- 
scious Edmond, attracted his attention. He viciously 
kicked the unrelaxed hand, and as the coveted weapon 
was hurled across the floor into the little sea of crim- 
son, he calmly picked it up, wiped it upon the clothing 


The Car Barn Hold-Up. 


17 


of a prostrate form and swiftly walked from the room. 

Still another shot outside. 

“What was it?’’ queried a voice. 

“Nothing but a coat I guess,” was the laughing 
response. > 

Again silence. Nothing but unresponsive silence 
after five minutes- of tragedy, five minutes of unparal- 
leled brutality, of cold-blooded viciousness and rob- 
bery. 

From the rear barn came a patter of hurrying feet as 
men — aroused from slumber by this five minutes’ fusil- 
ade, this crashing of falling doors, swarmed forward to 
the front office, where their comrades lay dying and 
dead. Then turmoil; the appealing blasts of police 
whistles; the hurrying clamor of hastening ambu- 
lances; the quick, terse commands of uniformed offi- 
cers ordering inferiors in legions to the search; tlie 
excited calls, the blazing of myriads of lanterns like 
huge fireflies bent on vain and aimless quest, and again 
silence. Silence in an ambulance where Stewart gasped 
out his last breath. Silence in a death wagon which 
carried Johnson, who before he realized it had gone to 
answer his final call. Silence where two wounded men 
were hovering upon the brink of eternity. 


CHAPTER 11. 


CRIME-RIDDEN CHICAGO APPALLED— THE WORLD STANDS 
AGHAST MYSTERY THICKENS. 

The great city awoke that morning and read the 
startling headlines which told of the dreadful crime 
from flaring extra editions of the newspapers. The 
police had long been astir, routed out early by Chief 
O’Neill in an effort to throw out the great drag-net 
which had so often proved effective in rounding up 
desperadoes and common murderers. 

Eagerly the public grabbed every edition as it came 
from the press, but as the day wore on the information 
was not forthcoming that a capture had been made. 
Suspects, it is true, were gathered in by the scores and 
hundreds, but it could not be said that the police had 
cast the faintest rift of light upon the dark crime. 

Tempting rewards, aggregating thousands of dol- 
lars, were offered for the capture of the murderers of 
the defenseless clerks. The most astute policemen, 
veterans of scores of puzzling man-hunts, systemati- 
cally set about gathering clews. 


Crime-Ridden Chicago Appalled. 19 

Hundreds of citizens interested themselves as an>a- 
teur sleuths and almost every man, woman and child 
in the vicinity of the Sixty-first street car barns, eager 
to figure in the newspapers, came forward with some 
scrap of information which might command the atten- 
tion of the police. 

By nightfall, every jail-house in the city was choked 
with suspicious characters. Each person was sub- 
jected to the heart-breaking “sweating process’" by 
which many a man is said to have been forced to con- 
fess crimes which it was found later he could not have 
committed, but guilt was fastened on none. 

Clews that looked good one minute, fell flat the 
next. Direct information, aimed at certain persons, 
was found to be false. The help of the world, of police 
departments in every corner of the country, was solic- 
ited, but hours grew into days and Chicago found itself 
confronted with one of the most baffling mysteries in 
the world of criminal history. 

So effective had been the bandits’ work that neither 
of the two surviving victims could have identified them 
had the robbers and murderers been brought before 
them. All that was definitely known concerning the 
hold-up men was that the bloody hand which did the 
^^^ecution held § revolver. This facf was 


Crime-Ridden Chicago Appalled. 


established by an examination by experts of the bullets 
which let the life blood out of the four street . car 
employes. 

And then, of a sudden, occurred an incident unpar- 
alleled in the annals of the police department. A man 
bearing the name of Sluder, laughingly and voluntarily 
came to the front and confessed that he had taken 
part in the crime. Exultantly, the police and public 
seized upon his confession and the mystery seemed 
solved, until Sluder was discovered to be half-witted. 

His recital was full of inconsistencies. Finally he 
gravely announced that he had made the confession for 
the fun of the thing. 

The Chief of Police raved. His frantic subordinates 
trembled under his scathing denunciations anent their 
inability to clear up the mystery, and rebukes for lack 
of foresight in wasting time on an imbecile while the 
real murderers were being given time to escape. 

There occurred such a howl of public indignation 
as Chicago had never before heard. The police were 
accused of incompetency. The mayor was accused of 
harboring an inefficient superintendent, and the indi- 
vidual detectives and patrolmen were branded by press 
and pulpit as a lot of numbskulls, unfitted to guard the 


Crime-Ridden Chicago Appalled. 21 

safety of a great city, holding their positions only by 
virtue of political machinations. 

Day after day the police, aided by hundreds of ex- 
pert criminal reporters for the daily papers, fought and 
clawed and frothed over the mystery. Chicago became 
the butt for sarcasm and caustic criticism all over the 
world. 

The wildest among the mining and cowboy com- 
munities of the “wooley” West ‘chuckled and said: 

“It couldn’t even happen out here.” 

Goaded by these adverse comments, both at home 
and abroad. Chief O’Neill, one of the most brilliant, 
hard-working, capable and efficient policemen the 
world has ever known, shook his department from 
stem to stern. Men were discharged and transferred, 
reprimanded and warned, but the stronger the effort to 
disentangle it, the more obstinate became the mystery. 
Chicago, with all her sins, boasts of some of the great- 
est detectives in the world, and old, clever detectives, 
men of international fame, at last conceded; that — 

“There is no proof against any man we might arrest. 
The car-barn murderers will never be known, unless 
one chance in a million occurs — that someone confesses 
who has been captured in connection with some other 
offense and bluffed into the belief that his complicity 


22 Crime-Ridden Chicago Appalled, 

is known, or that his pals are under arrest and have 
told all.” 

But just as surely as fog must yield to the power of 
the sun, it was destined that the wanton slayers of the 
men at the car-barns should be dragged from the con- 
cealing shadows by the strong hand of the law and 
placed, quivering and cringing, in the unerring scales 
of Justice. 

None of their craftiness, their recklessness which 
passed for daring, could efface the bloodstains from 
the cowardly fingers that had pressed the triggers of 
the spiteful magazine guns. 

In cases like this, when all human agencies seem 
ineffective to bring retribution down upon the heads of 
soulless cravens, a Higher Power invariably steps in — 
a power as unerring as it is right, as intense in its 
relentlessness as the deed which calls it to the aid of 
humanity. 

It was a dark hour for the police; a bright one for 
the crooks. For the moment brigandage in Chicago 
seemed to pay. How brief was this moment — how 
short-lived the exultation of the lawless element and 
how terrible the vengeance of the law upon men who 
slew their fellow-beings for gain, was soon to be rec- 
ognized. 


CHAPTER in. 


SCHOOL-ROOM TO MURDERERS' ROW — ^THE MAKING OF A 

DESPERADO — BOYHOOD ENVIRONMENT — YOUTHFUL 
PROCLIVITIES. 

As all the world now knows, the reign of terror 
which preceded and followed the car-barn murders 
was produced by the deeds of four youths, barely 
emerging from their teens. The world asks “How 
could it be? — whence did they come? — how, in an 
enlightened community, amid environment which pro- 
duces, ordinarily at least, average citizens — how could 
four boys in so short a time become criminals of the 
blackest stripe?" The question is not one easily an- 
swered. It Is only known that the boys who afterward 
became the notoriously infamous car-barn bandits, 
started with as good opportunities in life as thousands 
of other lads, who today are reading with horror of 
their terrible deeds and fate. “A man who has no ex- 
cuse for crime is indeed, defenceless." 

Harvey Van Dine, Peter Niedermeler, Gustav Marx 

( 23 ) 


24 School-room to Murderer's Row. 

and Emil Roeske were reared on the Northwest side 
of Chicago, in a district where the residents are for the 
most part industrious and thrifty; where even laborers 
own their own homes and send their children to 
school; where such a thing as an aristocrat is un- 
known, but where good citizenship is prevalent. The 
Northwest side is peopled mainly by the first and sec- 
ond generations of foreigners. ^ With the exception of 
Van Dine, these were the antecedents of the bandits. 

Van Dine is an American and was brought up under 
gentler conditions than the others. On his father’s 
side, he sprang from a long line of fighting Americans, 
and his mother claims unbroken connection for cen- 
turies back with the nobility of Holland and Germany. 
For several years his father had been seeking greater 
fortune in the interior of Mexico than seemed to be 
his lot in Chicago, and the boy’s youth was without 
the restraining influence of a father’s presence. His 
mother, however, is a thoughtful woman of advanced 
ideas on most subjects; but it appears that her mother- 
love for her first-born often blinded her to many small 
faults which later developed into criminal inclinations. 

- For a few years he went to school with fair regularity, 
and while not remarkably brilliant, he showed an aver- 
age amount of industry in his studies and made prog- 


School-room to Murderer's Row. 


25 


ress that was satisfactory to his teachers. As he grew 
older and began to increase his circle of acquaintances 
beyond the limits of the school yard, that restlessness 
came upon him which was the first bursting seed of a 
harvest of wild oats. 

It was at this period and shortly thereafter, when he 
chose as his friends the three boys who later became 
his companions in cime. 

Gustav Marx belonged to a family which boasted of 
no proud connections. The methods of raising her 
children adopted by his mother seem to have been 
effective in the cases of his two brothers who, working 
for their livelihood in the usual manner of men of their 
class, maintained the home while Gustav was reveling 
in crime, and while even the father was serving a sen- 
tence within the walls of a penitentiary, for an offense, 
however, entirely remote in nature from those later 
deeds for which his son was deprived of his liberty. 

Niedermeier was reared in the old-fashioned Ger- 
man manner. His aged mother and father are barely 
able to make themselves understood in English. His 
two brothers are respected, hard-working citizens of 
their neighborhood. 

Roeske apparently never amounted to anything 
more than a street urchin or arab. He spent little if 


26 


School-room to Murderer's Row. 


any time in school, and was a bad boy from the time 
he was old enough to be bad, in all that the name 
implies. His home surroundings were such that he 
might have been something better than a lawbreaker, 
but he seems to have taken advantage of none of the 
opportunities offered him to develop decently. 

Such was the start in life given each of these des- 
peradoes. From the time they were about fourteen 
years old they carved their own fate, and in the process 
they worked together, seemingly vying with each 
other to see which could absorb in his own nature and 
make-up attributes of the greatest worthlessness. 

Niedermeier was the first of the quartet to chafe 
under the ties of home and school. At the age of four- 
teen he ran away from home, and while the other three 
were still terrorizing school children he was gaining his 
first lessons in crime, roaming the country in com- 
pany with tramps and worthless characters. 

Many months afterward he returned. There was 
every indication in his appearance and manner that he 
had been through experiences which had worked for 
evil in his mind. Instead of causing his former school- 
mates to shun him, however, these changes only drew 
them closer around him. When he related to them 
with boyish boastfulness that he had killed a brake- 


School-room to Murderer's Row. 2t 

man, they stood in awe and possibly admiration of 
him. At least they paid assiduous attention to every 
wild tale of adventure he told, and it was not long 
before the poison began to work. 

They began to remain out nights, smoke cigarettes 
and drink beer. They frequented pool rooms, loafed 
on corners and learned to gamble. These expensive 
habits, they found, could not be easily satisfied upon 
the small amounts of money they were able to wheedle 
out of their parents and brothers, so they decided to 
go to work. 

Marx started to learn the painter's trade. The others 
worked around at odd jobs, and as all were vigorous 
youngsters, they had little difficulty in finding employ- 
ment when they earnestly sought it. 

Roeske was the least industrious. The time came 
when even the money thus earned failed to gratify 
their steadily growing and always more vicious habits. 
They robbed chicken coops and anything else which 
promised loot. One night Marx broke into the Audu- 
bon school house and stole some lead pipe fittings. He 
was caught in the act and sent to the reformatory to 
serve out a fifty dollar fine. It is worthy of comment 
here, that the man who arrested him at that time was 
killed five years later by Marx. Nor were all of their 


28 School-room to Murderer's Row. 

acts against the law committed for gain. Traveling 
together as they did, they felt arrogant in their 
strength, and they found delight in creating disturb- 
ances at dances, bullying those weaker than them- 
selves and acting as street corner rowdies. 

'In one place they were still mutually interested, 
mutually ambitious, and that was at the rifle range. 
Each purchased a weapon and under hours of con- 
testing practice, each became a locally famous shot. 
In this expertness Van Dine shone as the peer, and 
his unerring marksmanship soon attracted the atten- 
tion of some of the best shots in Chicago. 

Van Dine showed certain powers of organization 
and love for detail that later made him easily the leader 
of the bandits. He gathered together a military com- 
pany, composed of the boys of his neighborhood and 
drilled it to a remarkable state of proficiency. He 
even carried his activities further and gained some rep- 
utation as an athlete. 

In this he was not alone. His physical prowess was 
equalled by both Marx and Niedermeier, although 
Roeske’s habits of laziness prevented him from be- 
coming notable in any field where physical activity 
was required. The three leaders, however, became 
proficient boxers and expert wrestlers. 


School-room to Murderer's Row. 


29 


His love for militarism and the handling of firearms 
led Van Dine to join the National Guard of Illinois, 
where he was believed to be a steady, earnest and am- 
bitious young man. 

It may be seen that their boyish proclivities, sports, 
exercises and games developed them physically and 
tended to make them adepts in a nefarious career 
which was later to startle the civilized world and aid 
them in evading the police, baffling trained detectives 
and for a long time evading suspicion and final justice. 


CHAPTER IV. 


SEEKING BIG GAME — SUCCESS LEADS TO HIDEOUS RECK- 
LESSNESS — THE FIRST MURDER — WAY IS PAVED FOR 
A TERRIBLE FUTURE A DISAGREEMENT. 

To enumerate within these pages all of the minor 
crimes committed during the brief career of the in- 
famous Magazine Trio would be but to tire the reader 
and extend this appalling narrative far beyond the 
allotted limits of a single volume. Neither is there in 
existence a perfect record of their smaller deeds — 
those acts which by the gradual process of evolution 
first transformed these shiftless boys into mischief 
makers, then into rowdies, and then on through the 
transitory stages into night-hawks, cigarette smokers, 
gamblers, drunkards thugs, highwaymen, murderers 
and outlaws. 

It was about the first of March, 1903, that, tired of 
petty hold-ups and emboldened in crime, they began 
the contemplation of more serious offenses against the 
jfiw. The series of highway robberies which for sev* 

m 


Seeking Big Game. 


31 


eral months followed each other in rapid succession 
attested their increasing bravado. In the latter part of 
June the quartet began planning a grand coup. 

Most of their time was spent in casting about for a 
favorable object for their criminal intentions. Nieder- 
meier and Roeske, while scouting about the northern 
section of the city, made a close examination of the 
Clybourn Junction station of the Chicago & North- 
western railway. They noted that the depot agent was 
usually alone and that generally he had a large amount 
of cash in his. possession. 

With that cunning which always prompted them to 
execute their deeds with the least possible risk to 
themselves, Roeske and Niedermeier set the evening 
of the Fourth of July as the time for the hold-up. 

They knew that the sound of shooting would attract 
no attention on Independence Day, and it was plainly 
their intention to shoot down whoever stood between 
them and the money which they had determined should 
be theirs that night. 

As if sneaking like forest cats upon their unsuspect- 
ing victim and overpowering him by force of numbers 
were not an effective enough course to suit their pur- 
pose, these two hair-brained youths spent almost the 
entire day at target practice in the back yard of the 


82 


Seeking Big Game. 


Niedermeier residence. When they had grown tired 
of shooting at marks, they carefully cleaned, oiled and 
loaded their weapons. 

Could some unseen hand have reached over their 
shoulders at that moment and deprived them of these 
terrible instruments of death — instruments which were 
destined to bring sorrow and mourning to many a 
home — what a blessing it would have been to these 
misguided lads; what hours of solitary repentance and 
anguish would they have been spared! 

But Fate, presiding at the mysterious, ever-whirling 
wheel of Fortune by which men’s destiny is measured, 
gave the disc another spin and two unfeeling hearts, 
two unreasoning brains impelled these luckless young 
men onward to the black valley of crime — a valley 
with a verdant and beautiful, alluring entrance, but with 
only one exit, and that guarded by the angel of retri- 
bution. • 

In the darkness of the night, as George W. Lathrop, 
the agent at the Clybourn Junction station, turned 
from filling in some reports, he was confronted by 
Niedermeier, his face partly covered by a mask and a 
big pistol leveled at the railroad man’s head. 

“Open that safe and be quick about it!” came the 
sharp command. 


Seeking Big Game. 


33 


Lathrop was a man of nerve and action. His reply 
to the robber’s order came in leaping forwaiM and 
grappling with his opponent. His plucky action was a 
surprise to Niedermeier, whose calculations for the 
moment were completely upset by the attack. Out- 
side Roeske was standing guard. 

Breaking away from the station agent, Niedermeier 
stepped back, took quick aim and fired. A loud report 
echoed through the little room and Lathrop fell, dan- 
gerously wounded. 

Niedermeier sprang over his form toward the safe, 
when Lathrop feebly trying to catch his leg and trip 
him, lapsed into unconsciousness. 

'‘Crack him again,” came a voice from the outside. 
“He just wiggled.” 

“Oh, lie’s good for dead,” replied the other desper- 
ado; “I ain’t got time.” 

With that he dashed out of the door and the two 
melted into the gloam and leisurely strolled homeward, 
the sound of their retreating footsteps mingling with 
the swift clatter of policemen’s boots as the bluecoats 
rushed to the scene of the robbery and attempted mur- 
der. Their loot amounted to only $120. 

Lathrop survived his wounds and confronted Nied- 
ermeier after the latter’s arrest. 


34 


Seeking Big Game. 


'‘I want to say one thing, Mr. Lathrop,’’ said the 
prisoner to the man he had left for dead that Fourth 
of July night, “you certainly gave me the worst fight a 
hold-up man ever got.” 

The success of Roeske and Niedermeier’s exploit 
inspired Van Dine and Marx to form plans for a simi- 
lar deed. They took Roeske in with them. 

On the night of July 9, the trio went to the saloon 
of Ernest Spires, at 1820 North Ashland avenue. 
Roeske was sent in ahead of the others. He was sup- 
posed to be unacquainted with the two men who were 
to enter a moment later, revolvers in hand. Saunter- 
ing up to the bar, Roeske ordered a glass of beer and 
was served. 

Hardly had he raised the glass to his lips when 
Van Dine and Marx entered the front door and ordered 
those within to throw up their hands. Otto Bauder, a 
young man seated at the side of the room, arose from 
his chair, but made no move to throw up his hands. 
Instead, he stood, trembling with terror and speech- 
less. 

In front of his array of glittering glassware, the 
bartender stood with elevated hands. Roeske started 
around the end of the bar to extract the money from 
the till. Van Dine and Marx keeping careful watch on 



A woman’s white face at the window witnesses the killing' of 

Otto Bender. 



Seeking Big Game. 


37 


the doors and upon the bartender and patron in the 
meantime. 

Terrified half out of his senses, the boy Bauder, who 
up to this moment had stood transfixed with horror, 
recovered the use of his limbs and rushed toward the 
door. An instant later, he lay writhing in death agon- 
ies on the saloon floor. Three shots were fired, but 
they had sounded as one discharge. 

Quickly Roeske turned and completed his looting of 
the cash register. 

Their work done, after admonishing the bartender 
to make no outcry under pain of death, the bandits 
hurried toward the door. 

Just then, like an apparition, a woman^s white face 
was outlined against the darkness of the side window, 
gazing with horror upon the scene within. 

. It was the turn of the desperadoes to take fright. 
They flashed meaning glances at each other and their 
faces paled as the face disappeared from the window 
and the still night air was pierced by scream upon 
scream as she fled down the street. 

“She’ll have the police on us in a minute,” hoarsely 
whispered one of the bandits. “What’ll we do? We’d 
better get out of here quick, since Roeske’s killed that 
kid.” 


38 


Seeking Big Game. 


“I never killed him; you fellers did it/’ retorted 
Roeske. 

By this time the three panic-stricken robbers were 
out of the door. 

shot into the ceiling,” said Marx, turning a steely 
glare upon Roeske. 

By this time they were running for the cover of a 
gloomy alley. As they passed under a street light, 
Roeske whirled about, a look of intense anger on his 
face, his pistol in his hand. 

“Go along now, or you’ll get what’s coming to you.” 

The first murder had been committed and some- 
thing else had happened. From that moment Roeske 
feared his companions. At no time thereafter did he 
turn his back on one of them. 

“I knew,” he said afterward, “that they would kill 
me like a dog on the slightest provocation.” 


CHAPTER V. 


LIFE BECOMES CHEAPER— AN ICE-BOX JOB — WORKING 
UNDER THE VERY NOSE OF POLICEMEN. 

“Only $2.35/^ growled Van Dine an hour later as 
the three bandits sat in a pool-room on North Clark 
street. 

“Yes, and lives are getting cheap,” sneered Marx, 
casting a malevolent glance at Roeske, who now sat as 
though stupified, recovering from intoxication. 

“Fll stand for no more useless killing, Roeske; I 
want you to understand that,” Marx continued, and 
then, arising, he said: “You can have my share. You 
killed a boy to get it.” 

As Marx' athletic figure disappeared through a door- 
way, Roeske broke into a stream of oaths. 

“There's no use in that,” interrupted Van Dine. 
“The only thing for us to do is to make another ‘stick- 
up' right away. I have got to have money. Let's go 
somewhere else tonight.” But Roeske, pale and shak- 
ing, hung his head and declined. 


40 


Life Becomes Cheaper, 


'‘-Well, then, to-morrow night,” urged Van Dine, and 
as Roeske assented. Van Dine signified his intention 
of going home and walked from the pool-room, draw- 
ing his hat down over his eyes, setting his lips in a 
thin, determined line. 

On the following evening they met by appointment, 
and Van Dine immediately saw that Roeske had re- 
covered from the effects of his previous night’s excite- 
ment and debauch. 

“Well, how do you feel tonight?” he asked jocu- 
larly. “You don’t look as though you had had any bad 
dreams.” 

“No, not exactly,” replied Roeske with a grin; “but 
say. I’ll tell you what, old pal, not that my nerve needs 
it, but let’s go get ‘a bracer’ before we do anything 
tonight.” 

They went to a neighboring saloon, one of their 
accustomed haunts, where Van Dine took good care 
that Roeske did not indulge his weakness too freely. 

A few minutes later they sauntered into Greenberg’s 
saloon, 401 Addison street. 

“Evenin’, gents,” said Louis Cohan, the bartender. 
“Kind o’ warm out this evenin’, isn’t it, gents,? What’ll 
you have?” 

“Got any bottled beer on ice?” asked Van Dine. 



Thrusting bartender Cohan into the ice-box. While Van Dine attended 

bar, Roeske stood guard. 



Life Becomes Cheaper. 


43 


^‘Yes, got some in the ice box,” replied the barten- 
der, bustling toward the huge receptacle which stood 
in the rear of the room. 

^‘Give us a couple of pints.” As he spoke. Van Dine 
moved noiselessly in the direction taken by the bar- 
tender. 

The latter briskly threw open the refrigerator door 
and an instant later, half-stunned by a powerful blow at 
tlic base of the brain, he was plunged sprawling amidst 
the kegs and bottles which filled the big box. The 
door slammed after him and the lock snapped. 

Roeske laughed and Van Dine joined him. 

“Guess he’ll keep cool enough in there,” said Van 
Dine. 

Up to this time neither man had drawn a pistol, 
which accounts perhaps for the fact that two men are 
alive today who entered the place as the bandits were 
guffawing at the bartender’s predicament. 

“Where’s Louie?” asked one of the patrons. 

“Oh, he stepped out for a while,” replied Van Dine, 
as he stepped quickly behind the bar and leaned 
toward the newcomers. “It’s pretty warm out this 
evening, isn’t it, gents? What’ll you have?” 

At this mimicry of the imprisoned bartender’s greet- 
ing, Roeske roared with laughter, but his hand was 


44 Life Becomes Cheaper. 

in his pocket, and his eye never left the refrigerator 
door. 

Removing his hat, Van Dine proceeded to tie on a 
white apron which he picked up from the rear of the 
bar. He served the customers with whiskey, received 
a silver half dollar in payment, turned and rang up a 
quarter on the cash register and handed back the 
change, but he failed to close the register. 

The patrons left and Van Dine, still retaining his 
white apron, proceeded to divide with Roeske the con- 
tents of the register, amounting to twenty-five dollars. 

'‘Let’s open the door,” said Roeske, “and see if the 
bartender, our old friend Louie, hasn’t got some coin 
in his clothes.” 

“All right,” assented Van Dine, and both started 
toward the ice box with the intention of making a fur- 
ther search of the luckless Cohan. Just as they 
reached it, however, the street door swung open and 
four men walked in. 

Van Dine, keeping up his mimicry of the bartender, 
returned to the rear of the bar and served the latest 
customers with drinks. They stood but a few min- 
utes, however, little aware that leaning against the 
wall back of them, with hand clasped on a gun in his 
pocket, stood one, who, at the slightest sound of 


Life Becomes Cheaper. 


45 


alarm, would have opened fire on them with deadly 
effect. Roeske’s gleaming eyes warned Van Dine, 
and immediately after the four men departed, he de- 
cided to tarry no longer. 

Roeske, with a greediness unparalleled, would have 
liked to complete the robbery by looting the pockets of 
the imprisoned bartender. Van' Dine, however, in- 
sisted upon immediate departure. Doffing his bar re- 
galia and assuming his coat and hat, he nonchalantly 
led the way from the apparently deserted saloon into 
the street. Almost in front of the door, a policeman 
hurried to a call-box to make his hourly report. For 
an instant Roeske showed signs of terror and would 
have fled precipitately had not Van Dine checked him 
with a restraining hand. 

Fortune favored them, in that at the corner a car 
had stopped to take on passengers. They boarded it 
and rode to the other side of the city. 

In low tones they discussed the evening’s robbery. 
Van Dine expressed great disappointment that the 
amount taken had been so small. 

Roeske, on the other hand, regarded the twelve dol- 
lars which had fallen to him as his share, as being 
ample for his immediate demands. 

It took considerable persuasion on the part of Van 


46 


Life Becomes Cheaper. 


Dine to make his partner see that the amount they 
had on hand was really small. It was only through 
holding out inducements and glittering prophecies of 
reward for the future, that he could persuade Roeske 
to the commission of an immediate and further at- 
tempt. 

Roeske left the car first, after agreeing on an ap- 
pointment for the following night. The next evening, 
however, found Van Dine suffering from a headache, 
and a meeting place was agreed upon for another day. 

Promptly the appointment was kept, because Van 
Dine wanted a larger fund and Roeske, having been 
unlucky in a gambling game, was again penniless. 
Without discussion and trusting entirely to Van Dine’s 
selection, Roeske joined the latter in a trip to the 
saloon of Charles Alvin, on Roscoe street and Shef- 
field avenue. 

The man behind the bar was the sole occupant of 
the place and was polishing glassware when the door 
swung open. He found himself confronted by Van 
Dine, who gruffly said: “Put up your hands, and be 
quick about it.” 

The bartender obeyed without hesitation, as one 
look into the treacherous-looking faces told him that 
this was no time for parleying. 


Life Becomes Cheaper. 


47 


Roeske held a gun in his hand, but on Van Diners 
command replaced it in his pocket and went to the 
cash register to seize its contents. In an instant the 
work was done, he had joined his companion and the 
two were fleeing up the street, after warning the vic- 
tim that a shout from him would bring instant death. 

Again the street cars favored the daring bandits. 
One came clanging to the corner just as they reached 
it, and it was boarded before it had time to slacken its 
speed. 

That night Roeske’s vacation commenced, for even 
the rapacious Van Dine admitted that the proceeds 
from the robbery had enabled him to gain the sum he 
had set as necessary for his needs. 

A few days later the latter again appeared in a new 
suit of clothing, but Roeske wore the same shabby, 
unkept suit, the same frayed shirt and battered hat. 
His libations in the saloons he was wont to frequent, 
however, showed that in his own way he was gaining 
full enjoyment from his ill-gotten gains. 


CHAPTER VI. 


HOLD UP GORSKIES SALOON — GORSKI SHOT — NlEDERisiEIER 

DISCUSSES CASE WITH OFFICERS — MARX INSTRUCTS 
ROESKE — LA GROSSE AND JOHNSON KILLED. 

Perhaps in all the escapades of the bandits, no man 
came nearer death and yet lived to tell the tale than 
did Peter Gorski, a saloon keeper whose place at 261 1 
Milwaukee avenue was robbed by Niedermeier and 
Van Dine on the night of July 20, 1903. 

As darkness lowered over the streets, the two ban- 
dits walked up on opposite sides, watching pedestrians 
and waiting for a favorable moment. Finally, after the 
patrolman on the beat had given his “pull’^ and had 
ample time to reach a distant portion of his district, 
the time came. 

No customers were in the saloon when the two men 
entered and gave the customary cry of *‘hands up!’^ 

Peter Gorski was no coward. Perhaps he did not 
realize that he was confronted by two of the most des- 
perate men living; perhaps had he realized it, he would 
( 48 ) 


Hold Up Gorski's Saloon. 


49 


have been just as prompt in action. Almost with the 
command in his ears, he turned sidewise to seize a 
revolver which he had lying behind the bar. 

^‘Bang!” One shot rang out from Niedermeier’s 
gun and a bullet whizzed completely through Gorski’s 
face, but a fraction of an inch from a vital spot, and he 
fell to the floor. Dazed and senseless he lay while his 
till was robbed of $ioo and the two men made their 
escape. 

The hue and cry were behind them on this occasion, 
however, for hardly had they left the scene of the rob- 
bery before Gorski revived and gave the alarm. The 
police were close at hand, and for hours thereafter 
there was a time of fright for the idlers and loiterers 
of the vicinity. 

Spurred on by the realization that all this reign of 
terror was steadily on the increase, the officers went 
over clew after clew and throughout the city slums 
arrested men who answered the descriptions of the 
highwaymen as given by Gorski. Little did they 
dream, however, that sleeping in homes where their 
parents would have believed such things impossible, 
were the two youths for whom they were searching. 

The next morning, Niedermeier talked for half an 
hour with the policeman in his home district, with 


50 


Hold Up Gorski's Saloon, 


whom he was well acquainted, and expressed great in- 
dignation that the police were unable to capture the 
daring robbers. 

“I think they ought to get those fellows and hang 
them without a trial,” he said. “It’s getting so bad 
that, honestly, I am afraid to stay out late nights any 
more for fear some hold-up will either shoot me or 
‘beat me up,’ thinking I have money in my clothes.” 

The officer laughed and pursued his way after say- 
ing: “No one who knew you, Pete, would hold you 
up, because they would know that you never had more 
than four dollars at a time in your life.” 

Days followed when the bandits reveled in pool- 
playing, drinking and carousing. Long before this 
Roeske was again without funds and had borrowed 
repeatedly small sums from the other criminals, until 
they became tired of it. He became the most insis- 
tent on the progress of their career and would daily 
report places where hold-ups could be made at a profit. 
His companions, however, distrusted him and feared 
that, through his readiness to shoot, he would sooner 
or later get them into trouble too serious to escape. 

The next hold-up was planned for the night of 
August 2. 

Gn that fateful night, at 2120 West North avenue. 


Hold Up Gorskies Saloon. 


51 


Benjamin La Gross e, a saloon keeper, and Adolph 
Johnson were sitting at a small table as the last cus- 
tomer departed. 

“I can’t sleep tonight/’ said Johnson; ^‘let’s play a 
game of ^seven up.’ ” 

La Gross e assented and produced from behind the 
bar a deck of cards, and for some time the men sat 
laughing, playing a game which was a favorite with 
them until the hour waxed late. Pedestrians no 
longer trampled to and fro along the pavements, and 
except for a few belated customers who dropped in for 
a ^^night-cap” the saloon was unfrequented. 

Suddenly the front door was opened silently and 
two masked men stealthily entered. So still was their 
entrance that the squeaking of the swinging doors was 
the first sound that betrayed their presence. The 
saloon keeper naturally thinking he was confronted by 
two late customers, turned expectantly. 

His idea was speedily dissipated, however, by the 
action of Van Dine, who quickly whipped two menac- 
ing revolvers from his pockets and held them over the 
two men. 

‘‘Don’t make a move,” he exclairned, “or you are 
3ead men.” 

'M h§ spoke he walked toward them, his eyes glit'» 


62 


Hold Up Gorski's Saloon. 


tering coldly, while behind him stood the ready Nied- 
ermeier, prepared at an instant’s notice to assume his 
part in the battle, if one came. 

^‘What do you want?” demanded La Grosse, as he 
hesitated, half-arisen from his chair. 

“We want your hands up,” replied the steady voice 
of Van Dine. 

La Grosse failed to comply, while his bewildered 
companion started to rise from his seat. 

“Bang— bang!” 

Almost as one report the two revolvers in Van 
Dine’s hands barked out. The sound of a fall followed 
as Johnson, shot through the stomach, pitched for- 
ward to the floor, in the first throes of death. 

“My God, you have killed me I” exclaimed La Grosse 
as he staggered toward the door, clutching wildly with 
his hands as though for support. 

“Give it to him again,” yelled Niedermeier. “If you 
don’t he’ll get away.” 

Again the crash of the revolver resounded through 
the room. It was enough. La Grosse dropped like a 
shot in the doorway, his feet moving convulsively. 

“Get the cash, quick!” yelled Van Dine, as he took 
a glimpse into the face of the fallen Johnson. “We'll 




Hold Up Gorski's Saloon. 


55 


have the cops here in half a minute, and want to make 
a quick ‘get-away/ 

A volley of curses followed this remark, as Nieder- 
meier discovered that there were but a few dollars in 
the till. 

“Go through those fellows^ pockets,” he called, 
“while I make a search and see if there isn’t some 
money around some of these books or bottles. 

As he made the search. Van Dine stooped over his 
victims and searched their pockets for whatever loose 
change they might have, but he too turned away dis- 
satisfied. 

Hark! A noise of a whistle of warning from far up 
the street. Another and yet another, more hastily 
given. 

“The cops!” fairly shrieked Niedermeier, and to- 
gether they desisted from further search and dashed 
into the street. 

“This way — this way!” called Van Dine to Nieder- 
meier as the latter turned toward a main thorough- 
fare. Down a side street the two fiends ran at full 
speed, their feet awaking the echoes of the night until 
they went out on to the block pavement where the 
sound was deadened. 

As they approached Division street they abruptly 


56 


Hold Up Gorski's Saloon. 


ceased running and walked out to the main line of 
travel. 

A short distance in front of them walked two famil- 
iar figures. Keeping a considerable distance apart, 
they traversed several blocks before joining each other 
in a hallway. Roeske and Marx, who had awaited 
their coming, eagerly listened to the story of the 
night’s murderous work. Before the tale was com- 
pleted, and as though in verification of the story, the 
clanging of an ambulance driven at reckless speed 
smote the night air and passed the dark doorway in 
which they were sheltered, sprang the horses, urged 
forward by their driver, while seated beside him and 
also clinging to the rear, were numerous blue coated 
officers. 

Even then, this band of hardened, calloused crim- 
inals regarded the dark deeds of the night as nothing 
more than trivial incidents, and after naming a meet- 
ing place for the following day chose different direc- 
tions, Van Dine carelessly whistling as he left his 
companions in crime. 

As he entered his room cautiously and lighted the 
gas he smiled at the recollection of La Grosse’s dying 
fall, and tossed from the center table a Bible that had 
been given him by his mother, 


Hold Up Gorski's Saloon. 


57 


His unawakened or dead conscience caused him no 
trouble, as the evening^s episodes passed before his 
memory in review. He afterward admitted that the 
lack of more booty occupied his consideration more 
than the thought that he had that night assisted in 
hurrying two innocent men to the grave. 

He afterward admitted, too, that within a few min- 
utes he was sleeping as soundly as though no burden 
of taint rested upon his blackened soul. 


CHAPTER VII. 


VAN DINE PLANS TO KILL AN OLD TIME FRIEND BADLY 

WORRIED ABANDONS PLAN — TAKES BLOODY OATH 

ON BIBLE PLAN CAR-BARN ROBBERIES. 

Notwithstanding his peaceful sleep that night, Van 
Dine was worried; not because of the crimes he had 
committed, but because of something which he had 
failed to mention to his companions. It was this: 

Even at the hour when the La Grosse hold-up and 
double murder had taken place, a young woman was 
passing on her way home from a late visit to a friend. 
She had been an old-time acquaintance of Van Dine. 

As they dashed from the saloon. Van Dine in one 
hurried glance had seen her standing, gazing with 
horrified eyes on the scene within. He felt that now, 
if never before, he stood in risk of detection. 

His nature was such that he boldly took the only 
course by which he could possibly prov.e or disprove 
his suspicions, and therefore visited her the day fol- 
lowing the crime, 


( 58 ) 


Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 69 

“Hello, Fanny,’' he said, briskly accosting her and 
narrowly watching her face. 

“Why, hello, Harvey,” she answered, and with her 
friendliness vanished Van Dine’s fear. 

“I am so nervous today,” she said, “that I can hardly 
speak steadily. I saw that dreadful hold-up at that 
saloon last night, and saw the robbers shooting down 
those poor fellows. I was so terribly frightened I 
couldn’t move until after they started for the door, 
when I ran down the street looking for a police officer.” 

“What kind of looking fellows were they?” asked 
Van Dine, as though from idle curiosity. 

“Oh, one was about your size, but I didn’t get a 
good look at him, as I was watching the other rob- 
ber,” she answered. And then at Van Dine’s solicita- 
tion she detailed that portion of the tragedy which she 
had witnessed, but in no wise implicating her listener, 
who stood as though merely anxious to hear details of 
a story of which the whole city was talking. 

Van Dine asked many questions, and at times 
laughed at her fears. He skillfully turned the conver- 
sation into other channels and soon took his departure. 

“I wonder now if I really know all she knows,” he 
muttered to himself as he hesitated a short distance 
down the street from the place of the conversation. 


60 Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 

“I would hate to have to kill Fannie/^ he continued 
ruminatively, ^‘but if it comes to a 'show down’ where 
it’s her life or mine, I guess I’ll have to do the job.” 

For once in his life the bandit had come to a place 
where he hesitated. For hours he walked idly to and 
fro on the streets, or sauntered aimlessly through a 
little park, trying to decide whether it were better to 
take no chance of her becoming suspicious of him, or 
to let the matter rest. 

At times it seemed there could be but one course, 
and that was to watch for her as she returned from a 
late call, or possibly from work, waylay and kill her, 
thus forever stilling her tongue and sending her secret 
with her to the grave. Cold sweat broke out on his 
face at the thought, but the look of determination that 
settled around his mouth belied any kindness. 

"It’s my only way,” he muttered to himself, "and 
the sooner I do it the sooner I’ll have it over with;” 
and he retraced his steps towards her residence with 
the idea of finding a suitable place for the commission 
of his crime. 

The merry whistling of a girl sounded behind him 
and he turned to face the girl of whom he was 
thinking. 

"Why, how you started,” she said, and her laughter 
rippled out like falling water. 



Van Dine contemplating another murder. 


I 


i 



Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 63 

“Harvey, I honestly believe you are in love. Come 
on, now, and tell me all about who she is. We are too 
old friends for you to keep secrets from me,” and she 
linked her arm through his and danced along at his 
side. 

Van Dine, conscience-smitten for once, and over no 
deed which had been consummated, but rather over 
one contemplated, wiped his forehead and felt as 
though a great burden had been lifted. He felt the 
silliness of his suspicions, and all the old trust came 
back to him. Here was a friend whom he could trust, 
and who never in a measure, even, connected him with 
the bloody deeds of the night before. His spirits arose 
and he gaily joked with her, passing a few minutes in 
a few minutes in friendly banter before separating from 
friendly banter before separating from her. 

Little did she dream, as she pursued her homeward 
way, how fate had been entangled in the syllables of 
her answers. Little did she think that by her side had 
walked and laughed one who, but the instant before, 
had been choosing a place for her untimely and violent 
death. 

Within an hour Van Dine had joined Niedermeier 
and Marx. He still looked shaken from his recent 
experiences, and when his comrades began to question 


64 Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 

him regarding his careworn face, he told them he 
wanted to have a quiet talk with them. 

“You fellows come to my room this evening,’* he 
said, “as there won’t be anyone home then, and we 
can talk without being heard. I’ve had something 
happen to me that has set me to thinking, and I want 
you to think, too.” 

The looks of carelessness vanished from their faces. 

“Shall we get Roeske?” asked Niedermeier. 

“No,” was the reply. “Fve got about enough of 
him. He is too dirty, and is always drunk.” 

“That’s right,” assented Marx. “I gave him some 
money to get a new suit of clothes the other day, and 
saw that he bought and put them on. Today I see he 
has on the same old dirty suit and hat, and when I 
went for him about it, I found that he had sold the 
new suit to get money to buy booze with. He’s got to 
cut that out if he wants to stay with us.” 

That night the conspirators, singly, arrived at Van 
Dine’s home, where they were met and escorted to the 
latter’s room. In the room were many little decora- 
tions placed by loving hands, including old-fashioned 
mottoes bearing scriptural quotations, a beautiful Bible 
on a center table, photographs of friends and relatives 



superstitious police unknotted. 

















% • 
T 







4 


» 




•» 


» 


I 


■ 




J. 

' « 



N • 












c* * 



i 




A *■ 


1 


Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 


67 


in groups, and on his dresser a picture of one of his 
sweethearts. 

But with it all and interspersed in a careless way, 
were other curios which betokened the taste of the 
owner. A rough rider’s suit, showing wear; ball bats 
and Indian clubs; boxing gloves twisted round shining 
foils, and festooned over the chandelier — a most grue- 
some relic — a hangman’s rope that had been used at a 
state execution, and which had been given him by a 
friend of his at Springfield. 

Niedermeier and Marx joked about the noose and 
laughed at Van Dine’s serious face. Apparently they 
had no thought that such a noose would ever be knot- 
ted for their own necks. 

Van Dine took the matter seriously and opened con- 
versation. 

“Look here, you fellows,” he said, in low tones, as 
the three bent over the table on which lay the Bible 
given him by his mother, “I have had a bad shake- 
up.” And then he told them of his experience with 
Fanny. 

“This thing has set me to thinking. I’m not afraid 
of either of you fellow^s, but I am going to cut Roeske 
out, except on special occasions where I can’t get 
along without hiui? I to promise m th^t 


68 Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 

no matter what happens, we are willing to stand by 
each other to the death, through thick and thin, 
whether on the scaffold or in velvet/* 

“Why, sure/* the others assented. “Of course we 
will agree to that.** 

“Swear it/* said Van Dine, thrusting the Bible be- 
fore them. All three placed their hands on the Bible 
and swore never to betray each other, and that in the 
commission of further crimes each was to do his share 
and divide the money equally with the others. That if 
any one of the three were taken, the others were to 
liberate him. 

Tinged with the romance of early novels, all took 
the oath in fantastic form, each pledging his hope of 
life and the hereafter to faithfully fulfill the obligations. 

Travesty of travesties! Three bandits, blood-stained 
and callous, swearing by their hope of Heaven, swear- 
ing upon a Bible, beneath a festooned hangman*s 
noose. 

Could anything be more inconsistent, more appall- 
ing? And yet there is no doubt that these same cow- 
ardly criminals, even at that desperate time of their 
career, were in earnest, as is shown by subsequent 
events. 


Van Dine Plans to Kill a Friend. 


69 


They then fell to a discussion of their past crimes 
and the planning of future attempts in outlawry. 

Van Dine said that he was tired of “petty thieving/' 
as he called it, and wanted to do something big. “Any- 
body can hold up a saloon/’ he said, “but it isn’t every 
one that has the coin. Let’s get something big.” 

They discussed train robbery, and from that the 
conversation led to other things. Finally street cars 
were spoken of, and in an instant the three men were 
looking at each other with the same idea. It was that 
they should rob no less a place than a car barn, a place 
seemingly impregnable. 

The inducements for such a bold move were that 
the car barns were as a rule isolated, and that at the 
close of almost any night’s business there could be 
found a large sum of money on hand. Sunday night 
was suggested as being the best, for the murderous 
robbers believed that on week days the proceeds of the 
day’s business would be deposited in the banks, while 
Sunday made such a course impossible. 

Thus was hatched the crime which was to startle the 
world by its daring, and which was really to end in the 
capture of the bandits. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


STUDY CAR-BARNS — DECIDE TO ROB ROGERS PARK — BAF- 
FLED— MARX AND ROESKE FIGHT — NEARLY AN- 
OTHER MURDER — VAN DINE INTERFERES — 
ROESKE OUT. 

As though making a census of the car barns of the 
city, the three allies, sworn and bound together, sought 
every station in the great city whose teeming millions 
were to be awakened but little later as the result of 
their efforts. 

Car barn after car barn was selected and each 
proved not the one, but finally a selection was made. 

The traveler approaching Rogers Park on the elec- 
tric line will remember the long, lonely stretch, the 
double turn and isolated location of that car barn. 
Here would be the ideal place. It had all opportunities 
for a speedy and successful escape ; there were two rail- 
ways upon which to ride back to the city, and divers 
saloons, roadhouses, and other resorts that could af- 
ford temporary shelter en route in case the chase 
grew fast and furious. 

no) 


Study Car-barns. 


71 


In the middle of August It was decided that this was 
to be the place, and the time, midnight. Days of effort 
produced careful plans of the streets adjoining, the 
places of secretion, the routes to be traversed to shel- 
ter, and maps of even the barn itself. 

The three desperadoes took a car to the scene and 
rode through to Rogers Park, riding in different 
cars and getting off at different streets. They de- 
ployed and met in the darkness near the scene of the 
intended robbery. Secure in a point of observation, 
they watched the cashier at his work, but to their 
sorrow and disappointment they saw that the money 
he had on hand was apparently small, and mostly in 
coin which would be difficult to carry in flight and 
hard to dispose of. 

A whispered consultation followed, and the trio de- 
cided to make the attempt. As they were preparing 
for the charge, four motormen, athletic, brawny and 
talking loud, swung into the office, and as the bandits 
watched with bated breath, took from their pockets 
weapons which they began cleaning and examining. 
In a few minutes more they were joined by two 
others. 

Outside, the ‘‘Magazine Trio,” for such they now 
styled themselves, tugged at each other's sleeves, and 


72 


Study Car-barns. 


baffled in their attempt, decided to return to the city. 
It was proposed that they come back some other night, 
but all seemed to have lost belief in the results of rob- 
bing the Rogers Park barn. They had learned to 
their sorrow that the men running on that line were 
armed, and also, that the proceeds were not so great 
as they had believed. 

A dispute arose, which was settled by Marx, who 
for days thereafter rode to and fro on the different 
cars, checking in his own way the receipts and learn- 
ing the company’s methods of depositing. He finally 
admitted that the amount to be secured would hardly 
justify the risk, and the Rogers Park plan was aban- 
doned. 

The barns at Seventy-ninth street and Vincennes 
avenue, next attracted their attention, and here again 
days were passed in the campaign. They all agreed 
reluctantly that the chances of escape after the robbery 
would be very few, and once again gave up the attempt. 

Then came that day when Niedermeier and Marx 
walked past the car barns at Sixty-first and State 
streets. Not a word was spoken. Each looked into 
the other’s eyes and knew that there was where the 
robbery was to be committed. 

Again came the weary days of watching, counting 


Study Car-barns. 


73 


the proceeds, mapping the surroundings and arranging 
the details, and in this work Marx proved the master 
mind. 

In a little room at Van Dine’s home, the three 
planned the attack. Van Dine had come into posses- 
sion of a sledge hammer, which he had stolen from the 
C. & N. W. railway, and it was decided that this would 
be necessary to break doors with. 

Even then there came an interruption that promised 
for a time to overthrow the car-barn robbery. It was 
Roeske. 

‘’You fellows are up to something and are cutting 
me out of it,’’ he grumbled one day to Marx, as the 
latter met him in a saloon. 

“Why shouldn’t we cut you out?” came back the 
answer cold as steel and as keen as the ping of a 
bullet. 

“You aren’t in my class. You are a dirty bum. You 
never dress decent, and all you do with money when 
you get it is to get drunk.” 

“Oh, come on in here until I talk to you,” said 
Roeske, leading the way into the back room of the 
saloon. 

Marx unhesitatingly followed. As he entered the 


74 Study Car-barns. 

room he stopped short as he was confronted by Roeske 
with a drawn revolver. 

‘‘Gus, you can^t fool me/’ Roeske hissed between 
clenched teeth. '‘If you fellows think you can throw 
me down, all you have to do is to try it on. I’ll shoot 
you if necessary, and if that won’t work I will hand you 
up to the police.” 

Before Roeske could raise a hand or pull the trigger 
of his weapon, Marx hurled himself forward like a 
catapult, full upon his weaker adversary and a battle 
for the possession of the gun began. Grimly they 
fought, with no outcry for mercy or hope of interfer- 
ence. Marx succeeded in overpowering his adversary 
and securing possession of the gun. He twisted his 
opponent’s wrist behind him and pressed the muzzle 
of the weapon to his forehead with a look in his eyes 
that showed the tiger had awakened within him. 

No one knows what the outcome of that brief affray 
would have been, 'had not the door at that instant 
opened from without, and a voice said in low, sibilant 
tones, "What are you fellows doing?” 

Marx released his gasping antagonist to find himself 
confronted by Van Dine. 

"He drew a gun on me and I took it away from 
him,” said Marx, still toying with the weapon and cast- 











Study Car-barns. 


77 


ing a gaze on the panting Roeske which boded the 
latter no good. 

“Well, you fellows don’t dare to fight,” insisted Van 
Dine. “If you do, it’s all off with all of us.” 

“I’ll kill him as I would a dog, the dirty bum,” as- 
serted Marx, glaring coldly at his former comrade. 
“He’s nothing but a ‘moocher,’ and if we don’t kill him, 
sooner or later he’ll give us all away.” 

Again Van Dine showed his foxiness by pressing a 
button in the wall, whereupon Marx speedily con- 
cealed the weapon in his pocket before the white-clad 
waiter entered. 

“Give us three big drinks of beer,” said Van Dine 
as he motioned the others to seats. He cast a signifi- 
cant glance at Marx and nudged his foot beneath the 
table. 

“You were wrong, Emil,” he said. “We wouldn’t 
think of doing a thing that you were not in on.” 

“But you fellows have money and I haven’t,” pro- 
tested Roeske. 

“The reason is that we don’t blow ours in on booze 
as you do,” replied Van Dine. “When we get money 
we keep it. You get your fair 'cut’ and then turn 
around and gamble and drink it. After that you come 


*18 


Study Car-barns. 


to us and expect us to let you have our money. It 
doesn’t go with us.” 

Van Dine continued in this strain for several min- 
utes, until Roeske, his suspicions allayed, agreed that 
he had been in error and extended his hand to Marx, 
who shook it as though nothing had passed between 
them. 

Both Marx and Van Dine gave Roeske some small 
change, ordered another round of drinks and left the 
saloon. As they walked up the street Van Dine was 
the first to speak. 

'‘Gus,” he said, “sooner or later we’ve either got to 
get Roeske out of the country or kill him.” Marx 
looked into his face and knew from that time on what 
was liable to be Roeske’s fate. 

An hour later Van Dine recounted the quarrel to 
Niedermeier, and the latter, too, sat silent and glow- 
ering. 

They tacitly agreed that Roeske should not be taken 
into the car-barn deal, as they were afraid his share of 
the sum of money they expected to get would, in its 
reckless expenditure, attract attention and prove their 
betrayal 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE CAR-BARNS — ^DEATH READY 
WAITING ITS VICTIM. 

‘‘Did you get it all, Harvey?” 

*T got all the greenbacks and all the silver I could 
carry.” 

“Where’s Pete?” 

“Here I ani,” came the answer from close at hand. 

In hasty whispers three shadowy figures engaged 
in the above conversation in the dark recesses of the 
Sixty-first street car-barns that fateful Sunday morn- 
ing in August. Almost within touching distance of 
them, the life blood of their four victims was rapidly 
ebbing away. 

It was the moment following the bloody tragedy in 
the cashier’s office, with which this history opens. In 
that tense moment, however, there was but little ex- 
citement on the part of the murderers; no jostling, no 
indecision. Everything proceeded with as much regu- 
larity and system as if rehearsed beforehand, 

(79J 


80 The Escape From The Car-barns. 

The escape of the outlaws m the midst of the alarm 
was accomplished with as much coolness and pre- 
cision as though they had merely been enacting a trag- 
edy on the stage instead of taking part in one of grim 
reality. A game of life and death, with the balance, 
for the time at least, cverwhelmingly on their side. 

Action now was all that was needed — action swift 
and sure — and their safety from discovery seemed 
almost certain. The fact that they had carefully 
planned this important feature of their heinous deed, 
had drafted plans of the barns by daylight and maps of 
the surrounding streets, vacant lots and alleys, gave 
them such familiarity with their environment that they 
moved quickly and without hesitation, even amid the 
inky gloom which surrounded them. 

By this time the “Magazine Trio,” as they styled 
themselves, had made of murder and robbery almost 
a mere habit. In this nefarious work they seldom 
erred. They took no chance of imperiling their own 
lives and preferred cowardly and uncalled-for murder 
to even the slightest chance of detection. 

Through the lavatory at the rear of the car barn 
they silently slipped. Out of the window, Niedermeier 
and Marx helped Van Dine for fear that in using his 
right arm in the effort to clamber through, he might 


The Escape From The Car-barns. 


81 


lose some of the blood-purchased money, which he 
so tightly hugged. 

With swift and silent steps the three desperadoes 
fled across vacant lots toward Sixty-first street. So 
intent were they on flight that they did not slacken 
their speed as they approached the thoroughfare. 

It was only when cautioned by Marx that they 
ceased running and adopted a more leisurely gait, that 
they might avoid attracting attention from the driver 
of a milk-wagon who was enroute to the city on his 
morning rounds. 

“Let’s get off this street,” said Marx. 

“No,” protested Niedermeier, “There’s no one in 
sight, and we can go faster here than on a side street.” 

Suddenly around a corner came the glare of cab- 
lights. Niedermeier with unparalleled brazenness, 
suggested, that as they had money they hail the cab. 

“No, you fool,” ejaculated Marx, “We’ll carry out 
the original plan and go to the park.” 

“But there’s no one in sight toward town.” 

“That makes no difference, we know the country 
where we’re going and there’s no use in taking 
chances.” 

“So do we know the country where we could go, 
and I tell you there’s no one in sight.” 


fi2 The Escape From The Car-barns. 

The discussion was ended by Van Dine agreeing 
with Marx and the flight toward Jackson Park was 
continued. 

Fearing to break into a dead run, lest policemen 
should suddenly loom up out of the gloom, they pro- 
ceeded at a fast walk. At every step one of the fugi- 
tives looked back anxiously to see whether there was 
any signs of pursuit. 

“If we get into that park before some one stops us, 
we’ll be lucky,” remarked Van Dine in a whisper. 

“That racket back there sounds as though some- 
thing was doing,” responded Niedermeier, “and it’s 
a sure thing they’ll be spreading out all over town in 
a few minutes.” 

Behind them they could hear the clanging of patrol 
wagon and ambulance gongs. Realizing that this had 
been their most desperate affair, possibly a fourfold 
murder, and keyed to a tensity of excitement rarely 
attained by them, the bandits even in this hurried flight 
were fearful of every sound and every shadow. 

Each electric light became a menace, each reflection 
from its glare a pursuing form. They slackened their 
pace, only when passing a light, and even then skulked 
through shadows as though feeling that watchful eyes 
were upon them. In the 'long stretches of darkness 


The Escape From The Car-barns. 


83 


they fled pantingly with the stride of trained athletes, 
half believing that in that ever-diminishing sound of 
confusion behind them, was the menace of pursuit. 

Time and again they sprang affrighted from the 
direct path fancying that behind trees or posts lurked 
waiting patrolmen. Surely “the guilty flee when no 
man pursueth.” From the strain and exertion they 
did not slacken and they became too intent upon escape 
to waste breath in conversation. 

Occasionally, however, an exclamation of alarm 
would escape one of the fleeing bandits and he would 
stop in his tracks. The others would immediately fol- 
low his example and draw their ever-ready pistols. 

After they had hurried along for several blocks Marx 
halted. 

“What’s that?” he whispered hoarsely. 

Niedermeier and Van Dine flattened themselves 
against the dark wall of a building. 

“Hold onto the coin whatever happens,” cautioned 
Marx. “If weVe found it’ll be all up with us anyway, 
so we might as well make a fight for it.” 

In the distance could be heard the unmistakable 
sound of rumbling wheels and the clattering of hoofs. 

“It’s probably an ambulance on the way to some 
hospital,” suggested Van Dine. 


84 


The Escape From The Car-barns. 


‘‘Maybe someone has seen us and the patrol wagon 
is on our trail loaded with policemen,’’ ventured 
Nddermeier. 

“If that’s the case,” said Marx, “the best thing we 
can do is to take to an alley and try to get into a bam 
or shed somewhere.” 

“Yes, and soon it’ll be daylight and then we’ll have 
a fine time making our ‘get-a-way’, A man won’t be 
able to walk on the street tomorrow without taking 
chances on being stopped and questioned by detec- 
tives. They’ll turn out the whole force and arrest 
everyone in town that can’t give a good account of 
himself.” 

“Well, we might make a run ahead of the wagon 
until we come to a good dark place somewhere and 
lie quiet until it goes by.” 

“Yes, and suppose the wagon stops and about 
twenty-five officers spread out all of a sudden, and 
begin poking into every shadow in this end of town. 
They’ll get us like rats in a trap.” 

“Listen! how far away do you think it is?” 

The outlaws strained their ears in the direction of 
the sound that had alarmed them. 

“It’s fainter,” declared Van Pine exult^ntlyj ‘‘they’re 
going the other way ” 


The Escape From The Car-barns. 

Thus another fortunate circumstance favored the 
murderers. 

Several other frights were visited upon them during 
the remainder of the trip to the park, but no person 
was encountered. It had been agreed that if they were 
challenged by any single person, they would unhesi- 
tatingly shoot to kill. 


CHAPTER X. 


JACKSON PARK AT DAWN — DIVIDING THE MONEY- 
PLANS LAID FOR MEETING NEXT DAY — ^THE 
TRIP DOWN TOWN. 

It is perhaps one of the strange freaks of fate that 
no early-rising health seeker chanced to pass one par- 
ticular bit of shrubbery in Jackson Park as the light of 
breaking day dispelled the gloom of that bloody night. 
For death would certainly have been dealt to the per- 
son who had stumbled upon that little group of reclin- 
ing youths as they set about the pleasurable task of 
separating and counting the fruits of their murderous 
foray. 

Their pistols, handy beside them on the grass, 
Neidermeier and Marx looked on with eager eyes as 
Van Bine’s muscular fingers plunged themselves again 
and again into the pile of crumpled bank notes as he 
deliberately told off into separate piles, a larger amount 
of cash than any of them had ever had at one time 
before. 



Jackson Park at Dawn. Dividing the Spoils of the car barn raid. 




Jackson Park at Dawn. 


'“One hundred for me, one hundred for you and one 
hundred for Pete/’ said the cashier of the party, with 
no thought of that other cashier, who only a few short 
hours before had counted the same bills and practically 
for that counting, lost his life. 

The others said not a word. They only glared 
greedily at the pile of money before them and carefully 
watched the count of their confederate to see that he 
made no mistake. 

“Two hundred for you, two hundred for me and two 
hundred for Pete,” again, came the voice of the bandit 
leader. 

“This is something like it,” finally broke in Marx, 
“I knew we could do better than holding up cheap 
saloonkeepers, if we only tried. Go ahead.” 

At last the count was finished. 

“Count it over now, boys,” said Van Dine, with a 
satisfied air, “and see that you haven’t been flim- 
flammed. You each ought to have nearly twelve hun- 
dred.” 

The second count completed, Marx said: 

“Now that you fellows see how easy it is to pull 
off big jobs, what shall we do next?” 

“Hold up a train,” promptly suggested Neidermeier. 

“Sure thing,” assented Van Dine. “We can rob 


90 


Jackson Park at Dawn. 


trains even easier than we robbed that barn last night. 
By the way, I wonder if those men we shot are all 
dead.’^ 

we’ll find out soon enough when we get down 
town. There’ll be extra papers out.” 

“How about scattering?” 

“What’s the use of scattering?” remarked Neider- 
meier and Marx agreed with him. Each fiend felt the 
need of the others’ support. 

“Let’s meet over at my house tomorrow,” said Van 
Dine and the others agreeing, the trio walked over to 
Cottage Grove Avenue and boarded a car bound for 
the city. 

They chatted freely and laid plans for future deeds 
as the car sped down town, boasted of their individual 
parts in the tragedy of the night before and declared 
they were through with “small game” from that time 
on. Thereafter nothing short of thousands would 
satisfy, or attract them to commit an act of robbery. 
They were affluent and happy, with no thought of the 
sorrow they had left behind them on the south side — 
no remorse in the voice or words of either. 

Arriving at Madison street, they left the cable-car. 
On every hand they heard naught on people’s tongues 
except the desperate raid on the Sixty-first street car- 


91 


Jackson Park at Dawn? 

barns tHe night before. The fact that it had already 
become a mystery pleased them immensely. 

Entering a saloon, they spent the first of their booty 
for a few rounds of drinks and entered spiritedly into 
a bar-room conversation in which speculation was rife 
as to the probability of the murderers being captured. 

“They ought to be strung up,’’ indignantly remarked 
Van Dine to the stranger next to him, at the same time 
winking slyly at Neidermeier. 

“Sure, Mike,” retorted Neidermeier. 

They imagined in their perverted minds that this 
was wit. 

Leaving the saloon, the three bandits walked over 
to Clark and Lake streets, where, after chatting for a 
time on the corner. Van Dine boarded an elevated 
train and started for his home at 777 North Springfield 
avenue. 

Neidermeier and Marx boarded a car at Washington 
and Clark streets, within a few feet of the city hall, 
where the heads of the police department were strain- 
ing every nerve in an effort to unravel the crime, for 
which these boys outside the window of detective head- 
quarters were responsible. 

Always crafty, these young desperadoes invariably 
worked on the supposition that to remain in plain sight 


92 


Jackson Park at Dawn. 


was the best means of throwing the sleuth-hounds of 
the law off their track. As they passed the city hall, 
a dozen detectives hurried out and scattered in different 
directions. Some of them even boarded the very car 
upon which the bandits were riding. 

''If I But Knew,’^ hummed Neidermeier, quoting a 
popular song and glancing significantly at the detec- 
tives. It was another cheap attempt at levity. All 
too soon their careless joking was to be turned to 
lamentation. 

At Kedzie avenue they transferred to a car which 
took them to Humboldt Park, where they lolled around 
for nearly an hour. 

Finally Marx expressed a desire to eat. 

Acting on the suggestion, they boarded a car and, 
with the same cunning that had characterized their 
every move since their career of bloodshed and robbery 
began, they dropped off in the shadow of the Des- 
plaines street police station to break their fast. Enter- 
ing a restuarant, they each devoured more than a 
dollar’s worth of the best viands on the bill. 

Their repast over, the two outlaws again rode boldly 
to the city hall corner, walked over to the Lake street 
elevated station and boarded a west bound train. 

They rode to the end of the line and then came back 


Jackson Park at Dawn. 


93 


down town, where they spent an hour or two in a 
bowling alley, enjoying a sociable game and discussing 
the car barn murders with other persons in the place. 

When the two separated for the day, Marx, with his 
usual contempt for the police, rented a room in West 
Madison street, near the Desplaines street police sta- 
tion, and Neidermeier wended his way to the family 
abode at Elston avenue and Diversey boulevard. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE MEETING NEXT DAY — READING PAPERS AND LAUGH- 
ING AT POLICE — TRIP TO DENVER FOR DYNAMITE — 
TRAIN ROBBERY PLANNED THE FAILURE. 

Refreshed by their long sleep, the three bandits met 
early the next day at the home of Van Dine. After 
lolling about the house for awhile, and conversing idly 
with the members of the family, it was suggested that 
Humboldt Park would be a better place for discussing 
the business on hand. 

Accordingly the three young outlaws made their way 
thither, purchasing the newspapers on the way and 
finding keen enjoyment in reading of the misguided 
and frantic efforts of the police to capture the “Car- 
barn bandits.” 

“That’s a good title weVe got now,” said Neider- 
meier, as he gleefully read the flaring headlines. 

“Oh, drop it,” said Van Dine, who upon cooler 
reflection was beginning to be no stranger to a sense 
of guilt. Marx was interested in the newspaper 2iC- 
iU) 


The Meeting Next Day. 


9S 

counts, detailing the blind efforts and desperation of 
the police and read with avidity everything obtainable 
bearing upon the crime. At this period he was appar- 
ently the least fearful of the gang of outlaws. 

don’t see how they can fasten any suspicion on 
us,” he said, after perusing a particularly detailed ac- 
count of plans formulated by the detectives for bring- 
ing the criminals to book. 

“Unless that milk-wagon driver got a good look at 
us,” said Van Dine, “I don’t think there’s any chance 
of anybody getting wise.” 

“How about the cab-man?” asked Marx. 

“Oh, he was half asleep,” said Neidermeier, “and 
never looked our way.” 

“Well, they’re the only two who passed us,” said 
Marx, “and the fellows that lived through the hold-up 
wouldn’t know us because we were masked and Van 
Dine had a wig to cover his red head.” 

“It seems they’ve looked up everybody in town but 
us,” he continued quietly, as he scanned the long list 
of prisoners upon whom the police pretended or rather 
imagined they were fastening the guilt for the murders 
at the car barns. 

“But let’s get right down to business now,” he con- 
tinued, breaking in on the loud chatterings and guf- 


96 


The Meeting Next Day. 


faws of his two companions as they perused the papers 
further. ‘‘Don’t believe everything you see in the 
newspapers anyway.” 

They all laughed at this sally and then settled them- 
selves to hear what Marx, as the author of “big games” 
had to say. 

“I’ll tell you what we’d better do,” said Marx. 
“Now we need dynamite if we intend to do this train 
robbery business all right, and if we go around town 
here buying it, the first thing you know we'll be sus- 
pected of riot being on the square and then it’ll be all 
off. We’ll get nailed sure. We can take a little trip 
out to Cripple Creek, though, and buy the stuff by the 
ton and nobody’ll think anything about it. They use it 
like dirt out there in the mines. What do you say?” 

“That’s a good idea,” declared Neidermeier, “and 
besides we are wealthy now and ought to do a little 
traveling for our health anyway,” he added facetiously. 
“I’ll go with you.” 

“Well,” said Van Dine, “suppose you fellows go 
out there and get the dynamite, while I lie around here 
and figure on a good train job.” 

This it was agreed should be the programme and 
soon afterward Neidermeier and Marx left for Denver 
on the Northwestern railroad. 


97 


The Meeting Next Day. ' 

Arriving in Denver they purchased two more maga- 
zine guns and by their judicious use in the manner best 
known to men of their stamp, they managed to more 
than pay the expenses of the trip. Indeed, Colorado 
proved so alluring to them, that the pair remained 
around Cripple Creek and Denver for a month. 

When they started on the homeward trip, it was 
with 150 pounds of dynamite in their trunk. Van Dine 
was overjoyed to see them and assisted in planting 
the dynamite where it would be dry and safe from 
detection. Some of it was hidden in tlie homes of the 
boys, all unknown to their parents, and the rest under 
sidewalks and in an old abandoned railroad station near 
the right of way of the Chicago & Northwestern rail- 
road in the vicinity of Norwood Park. 

At this point was an old clay-pigeon shooting range 
which the bandits had been in the habit of using for a 
practice ground and where they gained much of their 
prowess with rifle and revolver. It was while the trio 
was shooting at targets in this isolated spot one day, 
that the idea suggested itself, that it would be a good 
place to accomplish their first train robbery. 

Van Dine had not been idle during the absence of 
his companions and he had faithfully fulfilled his task 
of gathering valuable pointers regarding the best trains 


The Meeting Next 


to hold up. He had discovered that a large amount of 
money was usually carried on the Twin City Limited 
of the Northwestern railroad. 

“If we can pull of¥ that haul we can go and take a 
vacation for the rest of our lives,” he told his fellow 
outlaws, “and shake hands with the police forever 
more.” 

After deliberating further, however, the gang came 
to the conclusion that it would be more advisable to 
try first another train on another road, in order that 
they might have the advantage of previous practice 
in their big attempt. 

Just at this time it happened that Roeske, through 
his habits of shiftlessness and improvidence, appealed 
to his former “pals” to be allowed another opportunity 
of redeeming himself. He declared that if they would 
take him into any plans which they might have under 
way, he would agree to perform any daring deed as- 
signed to him without a whimper. 

His pleadings were heeded. A few nights afterward, 
Roeske was stationed at a lonely spot on the Wiscon 
sin Central railroad, where it crosses the Irving Park 
boulevard road, near the Desplaines river. The near- 
est station is Colze. Roeske was provided with a lan- 
tern and told to signal the engineer to stop. 



The brave engineer drives his iron horse through to safety. 






V 


4 


« 




# 





The Meeting Next Day. 


101 


At the point where the train would halt, if the engi- 
neer heeded Roeske’s signal-light, the other brigands 
awaited the coming of the fast express, which 'was due 
a few minutes after their arrival. 

As the headlight of the train hove in sight, Roeske 
obediently waved his lantern to and fro. Marx, Neider- 
meier and Van Dine, each clutching a magazine-gun 
in either hand, waited impatiently for the proper 
moment to begin their bloody work. 

Instead of stopping, however, the engineer of the 
express train, his trained eye telling him that there 
was something wrong with the manner in which the 
wielder of the lantern manipulated it, only turned on 
more steam and thundered past the spot where the dis- 
appointed bandits stood. 

Enraged beyond measure at this action of the nervy 
trainman, the outlaws opened a terrific fire on the 
cngine-cab, but it proved ineffectual and they never 
learned whether they succeeded in wounding either 
the engineer or fireman. 

“No more attempts like that,” said Marx decidedly, 
as they trudged homeward. “Our practice job has 
done us some good, you see. Now the next time we’ll 
do the thing up right. We now know how to get the 
dead drop on those fellows and be where we can shoot 


LcfO, 


102 


The Meeting Next Day? 


the lives out of them if they don’t mind. Roeske, we’ll 
use you yet,” he muttered significantly, as the despera- 
does, foiled for the first time in their careers, parted 
for the night. 

Roeske somewhat pacified by this overture, did not, 
however, relinquish his suspicions of his comrades. 


r 


CHAPTER XII. 

ROESKE AND WHISKEY THWART DESPERATE TRAIN HOLD- 
UP AGAIN IN BAD GRACE BOLDLY MINGLE WITH 

PASSENGERS RIDE WITH WOUNDED FIREMAN. 

Little time was lost in planning the big coup on the 
Northwestern. Nettled by their first failure, the des- 
peradoes were now more determined than ever before 
to succeed as train robbers. After a few preliminary 
conferences, at which every detail of the scheme was 
gone over and studied by the entire quartette, the fol- 
lowing course was decided upon: 

One member of the band at Clybourn Junction 
would board the Twin City Flyer, which leaves the 
Wells street depot at 6:30 o’clock in the evening. He 
would be armed with two well-tested magazine guns 
and would secret himself on the tender of the engine. 

At a point midway between Jefferson and Norwood 
parks — the ten-mile board — the other three would be 
in waiting. Just before reaching the ten-mile board, 
the bandit on the train wuuld climb over the tender 
(io§) 


104 Thwart Desperate Train Hold-up. 

and level his pistols at the engineer and fireman, com- 
manding them upon pain of immediate death, to stop 
the train instantly. 

Forty pounds of dynamite would be secreted at the 
ten-mile board and when the train came to a halt, the 
trio on the ground would proceed at once to blow 
open the express car, regardless of those within, and 
if threats of death failed to cause the express messen- 
gers to open the safe or strong box, dynamite would 
be used there also. 

After the booty, which it was figured would amount 
to from fifty to one hundred thousand dollars, had 
been secured, the engineer would- be forced to break 
loose from the train and keep on going. If he de- 
murred, death was to be his portion. 

“It’s a cinch we’ll put it over the plate this time 
good and hard and without a slip,” said Marx, grimly, 
after this plan had been concocted. “And if the haul 
is a good big one, do you know what Fm going to do? 
I’m going to quit this killing business before I get 
nabbed. Then I’m going off to some quiet little coun- 
try town, marry and settle down and have kids and 
all that. I’ll have a nice quiet little home and live the 
life of a respectable citizen. I’ll help pay the preacher’s 
salary and donate large chunks of dough to charity 



Roeske’s cowardly and ineffectual attempt to inti midate a train crew, 
near Norwood Park. 












TnwARt Desperate Train Hold-up. 101 


and all that. Of course I’ll stick some of my boodle 
into some kind of a legitimate little business just for 
a bluff at doing something. Occasionally when the 
feeling comes over me, I’ll tell my wife good-bye for 
a day or two and go out and turn a good old-fashioned 
train or bank job. Nobody will suspect the respect- 
able citizen and pillar of the church, the honorable and 
respected Mr. Gustave Marx, of being a hold-up man, 
see?” 

“Yes,” broke in Roeske, “and then you can dance 
your children on your knee and tell them the wonderful 
bloody tale about the car barn bandits — ” 

“Shut up,” retorted the tall bandit hotly. “You don’t 
stand any too good with us, anyway. And what’s more 
you won’t either, until you do something that shows 
you deserve it.” 

“Yes, Roeske,” remarked Van Dine reflectively, 
“you mustn’t kid about this marriage thing. I’m going 
to get hitched up pretty quick myself to Mamie Dunn.” 

“Make him ride the tender for getting so fresh,” 
drily broke in Neidermeier. 

“That’s a good idea,” replied Marx. “Just for that, 
you ride the tender and you do the thing up right or 
you’ll know what’s coming to you.” 

Roeske’s eye glittered and he remained sullen the 


108 Thwart Desperate Train Hold-up. 

rest of the day. Until the time appointed for the train 
robbery, he did not mingle again in the councils of his 
companions in crime. In the meantime, stinging under 
the rebuke he had received and the veiled threat of 
Marx, Roeske spent all of his time drinking in saloons. 

When he appeared at Clybourn station to board the 
tender of the engine drawing the Twin City Flyer, he 
was besotted with liquor. As the train pulled out, he 
was at his post. 

Chafing impatiently at their station near the ten- 
mile post, Marx, Neidermeier and Van Dine awaited 
the arrival of the flyer and the moment they confidently 
expected was to make them rich for the rest of their 
lives. 

At last the train was heard rumbling in the distance. 
Soon the headlight appeared, but as it neared them 
the engine apparently was puffing as hard as ever and 
showed no signs of slacking. 

“The low-lived bum has failed us,” cried Marx with 
a fearful oath. 

“I’ll bet he got drunk and didn’t get on at all,” 
wailed Van Dine. 

“Wait until I see that filthy coward,” menacingly 
growled Niedermeier. “I’ll fix him for this.” 


Thwart Desperate Train Hold-up. 109 

As the engine flashed past, however, a dark figure 
was seen creeping over the big pile oi coal. 

“He's there but he’s missed his calculations and he’s 
too late,” swore Marx. 

At that instant there was a flash and a report and 
a moment later the train began to slacken its speed. 
Four hundred yards down the track it stopped. Leav- 
ing their dynamite behind, the trio ran boldly toward 
the coaches. Passengers were pouring out of every 
car and there was confusion about the engine. Lan- 
terns were flitting to and fro and a crowd was gathered 
about a circle of light next the engine. 

“It’s no use now, boys,” groaned Van Dine. “We’d 
have to kill a thousand people to do anything now. 
Let’s see what that fool Roeske has done.” 

Shoving their pistols in their pockets they cooly 
mingled with the excited passengers and trainmen. 

“What’s the matter?” they asked. 

“Why a train robber climbed over the tender and 
shot the fireman down in cold blood,” said a man in 
the crowd. 

“Is he killed?” 

“No. but he’s hurt pretty badly. Several doctors 
were on the train and they are taking the poor mafl 
back into one of the sleeping cars.” 

'‘.That’s too bad/’ asserted Van Dine^ 


110 Thwart Desperate Train Hold-up. 

“Yes, it’s too bad in more ways than one,” mean- 
ingly responded Marx. “By the way, did they capture 
the miscreant who did the shooting?” 

“No, he escaped.” 

In the excitement, the three angry outlaws boarded 
the train and rode to Norwood Park. They returned 
to Chicago on the local train which brought back the 
wounded fireman. 

After this last misdeed Roeske kept carefully at a 
distance from his former companions. They were in- 
furiated at his cowardice in failing to obey orders and 
he feared, as he afterward stated, that they would 
murder him at the first opportunity. 


A 


CHAPTER XIII 

ANXIOUS DAYS FEAR OF DETECTION GROWS UPON THE 

OUTLAWS FUNDS HOLD OUT WELL SOLACE IS 

FOUND IN DRINK. 

The six weeks following the ineffectual attempt to 
rob the Twin City Flyer, were weeks of comparative 
idleness for such usually busy desperadoes as the car- 
barn bandits. Supplied with plenty of funds as the 
result of the murders committed at the car-barns, they 
had no reason to worry over financial matters, and 
therefore, their minds did not turn to crime during 
that period. 

Besides, the actions of Roeske, whom they seldom 
heard from, gave the “Magazine Trio” much concern. 
Roeske was putting in his time about saloons and was 
drinking heavily. It was feared by the others that he 
would make some false “break” while in his cups, 
which would mean discovery and instant arrest for the 
entire gang. 


(Ill) 


112 


Anxious Days. 


Neidermeier, Van Dine and Marx trusted each other 
implicitly, however, and each felt abundantly able to 
take care of himself in case the police should surprise 
him. All went about with their trusty automatic guns 
in readiness to shoot at a moment’s notice. 

Hundreds of rounds of cartridges were purchased 
by the trio, and their chief diversion during these days 
of inactivity consisted in occasional trips to their iso- 
lated shooting range, the old abandoned clay-pigeon 
park out on the Northwestern railroad, the scene of 
their bitterly disappointing effort at train robbery, 
which had been balked by the bibulous Rocske. 

Meantime, the boys were all leading model lives at 
home. They were free with their money in the family 
circle, made gifts to their mothers, defrayed household 
expenses and generally acted in a manner which was 
all that could be desired. It was not through motives 
of decency, however, that they acted thus, but rather 
as a well planned method of eluding police suspicion. 

They explained their possession of ready cash by 
the statement that they had saved up a little money 
and made some small but fortunate mining investments 
in western properties. 

Clandestinely, however, they turned their homes into 
veritable arsenals. The lofts of their homes and even 


Anxious Days. 


113 


their barns were stocked with pistols, rifles and an 
abundance of ammunition. Van Dine and Neidermeier 
even went to the extent of cutting loopholes under 
the caves of their homes, in order, if necessary, to 
withstand a siege by the police. They kept their arms 
with them by night and day and most of the time two 
of them slept together. 

Their principal enjoyment remained, however, the 
reading of the occasional references in the newspapers 
to their deeds. Many a hearty laugh they indulged 
in as they read, day after day, of the strenuous effort 
of the authorities to fasten guilt for the car-barn mur- 
ders on some criminal or suspected crook, who had 
fallen into the hands of the police. 

Although it is not definitely known whether they 
actually left the city during this time, it is thought 
highly probable by the police, that they occasionally 
took trips to other towns and committed small depreda- 
tions, because after their capture, information came 
from Cincinnati, Cleveland and several other places, 
to the effect that the authorities there were sure the 
‘^Magazine Trio” had committed crimes within their 
confines. It is known, through the personal state- 
ment of Marx, that he visited Cleveland and there 
purchased two magazine guns. 


114 


Anxious Days. 


The outlaws fpund considerable amusement in bowl- 
ing alleys and billiard halls, and as is usual with idle 
young men plentifully supplied with funds, they did 
more drinking than they had ever done before. 

Social pleasures also came in for a share of their 
attention and each of the bandits became involved in 
one or more affairs of the heart. Always well-dressed 
and of natures which appealed strongly to the fair sex, 
their conquests were easy. 

Van Dine became engaged to marry a handsome 
young woman upon whom his mother looked with 
much favor. Perhaps it was because they now had 
plenty of time to think over and consider the enormity 
of their deeds and the punishment which awaited them 
if they were captured, that often led them to discuss 
such a contingency as one of their number falling into 
the hands of the police. 

After looking at the subject from all angles, it was 
finally decided that in the event of either being ac- 
costed by the police, he would consider it incumbent 
on him to shoot the officer or detective in his tracks. 
It was this very cowardly plan, that eventually led to 
their undoing and their regretful admission at too fate 
a day, that “murder does not pay.” 

In case one of them should be surprised and cap- 


Anxious Days. 


115 


tured by strategy or taken through accident, it was 
agreed that the other two would move heaven and 
earth to liberate him. They still had the dynamite 
safely stowed away, and carefully they planned the 
course to be taken, should it become necessary to 
rescue one of the band from the clutches of the law. 

This foolishly child-like and impractical scheme was 
for the blowing up of the station-house or jail, in 
which the prisoner was confined, the assassination of 
those who held him captive and the murder of the 
officers who ef¥ected the capture. 

Meantime, in their aimless ramblings, they often 
came in contact with the police, many of whom they 
had known since their innocent school days. Often 
they chatted amiably with detectives and bluecoats on 
street corners, giving no sign by word or action that 
would tend to cast suspicion upon themselves in any 
way. 

On several occasions the maintenance of this ap- 
parent unconcern sorely tried even their daring natures. 
For instance, Marx, Van Dine and Neidermeier were 
walking in Addison avenue one night after leaving a 
dance in a near-by hall. 

The night was dark, and there had been a hold-up 
in the neighborhood but a quarter of an hour previous. 


116 


Anxious Days. 


The three were walking abreast and suddenly, as they 
turned a corner, they came face to face with two police- 
men. Each bandit had his hands in his pockets, as was 
their habit, with finger on trigger and ready to shoot 
at a second’s notice. 

‘Where are you fellows going?” roughly asked one 
of the officers. 

The other approached close to the trio, with the 
evident intention of grasping two of the youths by the 
collars of their coats. Had he laid a finger on either 
of the desperadoes, he and his companion would, to 
a moral certainty, have been corpses in the twinkling 
of an eye. 

A fortunate incident, however, saved their lives. 
Van Dine spoke: 

“What’s the matter with you fellows? Don’t you 
know us?” 

The policeman pausing at the sound of a voice which 
he recognized as having heard before, peered closer 
into the faces of the trio. 

“Why, it’s you kids. Come, Jim, these boys are all 
right. I know them.” 

“What’d you think we were, hold-up guys?” laugh- 
ingly asked Van Dine. 


Anxious Days. 


117 


‘That’s just what we did,” responded one of the 
bluecoats good-humoredly. 

“Where was the ‘stick-up’?” 

“O, down the pike a piece.” 

“Well, good-night. I hope no bold, bad highway- 
man holds us up before we get home, don’t you, Gus?” 

“You bet. I’d run like a whitehead if I saw a ‘stick- 
up’ guy coming after me with one of those big ‘smoke 
wagons’,” ventured Marx. 

“Good night, boys.” 

“Good night.” 

With these words of parting, the policemen went 
their way and the bandits strolled on. 

“*1 thought it was off,” said Neidermeier to his com- 
panions when they were out of earshot of the police. 

“I never came so near shooting in my life, without 
actually doing it,” was the first exclamation of Marx. 

“Well, it wouldn’t have hurt much anyway. It would 
only be two coppers less, and the fewer coppers there 
are prowling around nowadays, the better for this little 
bunch of mamma’s darlings; but say, wasn’t that a 
fine bunch of kindergarten talk we handed them.” 

And thus the fall wore on, the great South Side 
street-car strike, with its rioting and bloodshed, fur- 
nishing a little pabulum for the excitement-hungry 
spirits of the young desperadoes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


SCHUETTLER'S CLEWS — THE MAN WITH THE MAGAZINE 
gun — THE ALMOST HOPELESS SEARCH AND ITS 
RESULT. 

It was on Saturday, Nov. 21, 1903, that occurred the 
tragic opening of the last chapter in the stormy and 
picturesque career of the misguided boy bandits. 

Assistant Chief of Police, Herman F. Schuettler, 
who still retained his headquarters at the Sheffield 
avenue police station, whence he had been called from 
the position of captain to the more exalted one at the 
city hall, had been untiring in his efforts to solve the 
car-barn mystery. 

Sharing with the other officers of the department, 
the belief that the case would forever remain a dark 
blank — that there was but one chance in thousands 
of an accident occurring which would furnish a clew, 
he still had hoped against hope, that in time he would 
discover something that would give an excuse, at least, 
for following out some definite line of reasoning. 

( 118 ) 


Schuettler's Clews. 


119 


The only thing that the authorities had to work on, 
was the circumstance that the bullets which killed the 
men at the car barns, were fired from a magazine revol- 
ver. This weapon is the most deadly pistol that man 
has so far been able to invent. It represents the in- 
genuity of military experts and gunsmiths of both the 
United States and Europe. 

Of blue steel, generally ponderous and unsymetrical 
in form, but with the power of firing several shots a 
second, or so long as the finger of the shooter retains 
its pressure on the trigger, it is the ideal weapon for 
the hold-up man or desperado. 

Small pointed steel or copper tipped bullets encased 
in a tin shell, are injected into the handle of the maga- 
zine gun, in which is a spring. 

As one bullet is discharged, another by a spring is 
pushed upward and into position for another shot. The 
lecoil of the first sets off the next cartridge. If the 
operator so wills it, he is in a position to squirt deadly 
bullets from the muzzle of his hideous machine of 
death, even as he would sprinkle water from the nozzle 
of a hose. 

The magazine pistol is comparatively new, and it 
has not even been adopted by the ever alert experts 
of the United States army; but the armies of Europe 


120 


SCHUETTLER^S ClEWS. 


were quick to grasp its value, and in Germany, one of 
the most wicked patterns conceivable, is a part of the 
regular cavalry equipment. 

It was one of these, with which the car-barn mur- 
ders were committed, and with dogged pertinacity, 
Assistant Chief of Police Schuettler decided to work 
on this fact until, if it were within the bounds of human 
possibility, he could cast a ray of light upon the dark 
mystery. 

Quietly he went to work, taking into his confidence 
only a few of his most trusted and astute detectives. 

‘Trace down every one of those magazine guns in 
town,” was the almost hopeless task the intrepid 
Schuettler assigned to his confidants. 

Twenty-six of the pistols were found to have been 
sold in Chicago, and a few of them were traced to 
respected and responsible citizens, who had purchased 
them for protection on the streets at night and in their 
homes. The majority of the magazine guns, however, 
could not be located. 

“Keep a sharp lookout,” commanded Schuettler, 
“and post all your friends to keep careful watch for any 
person known to possess a magazine gun.” 

On this line then, the detectives labored with inces- 
sant zeal. How far-sighted were the instructions of 


Schuettler's Clews. 


121 


Scliuettler was shown a few weeks afterward, when the 
‘‘tip” came to him from a source which to this day has 
not been made public, that a young man had become 
intoxicated in an all-night saloon on the northwest side 
and exhibited a gun of the magazine pattern. 

“I carry this for coppers,” the drunken youth is said 
to have declared. 

Who the young man was, however, it was difficult 
to ascertain. 

“Search the town and bring him in,” ordered Schuet- 
tier, of his faithful sleuths. 

Provided with a careful description of the man with 
the magazine gun. Detectives William Blaul and John 
Quinn tramped the streets of the northwest side night 
after night. They slipped in and out of saloons, 
prowled through dark streets and alleys, and visited 
the haunts of all of the rough and ready cliques known 
to them. 

Finally they became convinced that the man whom 
they sought was Gustav Marx, a young painter who 
lived with his parents on Irving Park boulevard. They 
started out to trace his recent movements and dis- 
covered that he had not worked steadily for some 
time. They remembered him as a boy and their mem- 


122 


SCHUETTLER^S ClEWS. 


ories were refreshed by visits to his home and to per- 
sons who were acquainted with him. 

“He has not been at home much of late,” they re- 
ported to Assistant Chief Schuettler. 

“Now are you certain he is the man who flashed 
the magazine gun in that saloon while in his cups?” 
asked Schuettler. 

“We are not absolutely sure,” replied Detective 
Quinn, “but circumstances point to him.” 

“Well, boys,” responded Schuettler after a moment’s 
reflection, “I want you to bring that fellow in here. I 
want to talk to him.” 

“All right, sir,” exclaimed the two detectives as they 
started toward the door. 

“Wait a minute, boys,” said the assistant chief 
gravely, “one word more. I have chosen you two 
fellows for this job because I know you from past per- 
formances to be brave men and dead shots. If this 
man is actually one of the men who did that cold- 
blooded, dastardly car-barn job, you are going against 
a tough proposition. I want you to go well heeled, 
and take no chances with him. How are you fixed 
with guns? Let me see what you both are carrying?” 

“Have no fear on that score,” came the answer from 
both detectives, as each drew from his pockets two 
revolvers. “We each have a small caliber, easy shoot- 


Schuettler's Clews. 


123 


ing gun for our outside overcoat pockets, where it 
wont show and can be quickly drawn, and in reserve 
you will notice we have these big, murderous Colt's 
'gats' in our hip pockets." 

"All right, boys, see that they are well loaded, be- 
cause you are liable to get into a dirty mess with that 
fellow, and his pals are likely as not to be with him 
when you come upon him." 

"Never fear, chief," cheerily responded the officers, 
who had been tried and found true in many a fierce 
skirmish with all kinds of lawbreakers. "We’ll get as 
many of them as we see, even if we have to bring 
them in on stretchers." 

With these parting words, the two detectives went 
out upon their dangerous quest. Both young and 
athletic, medal winning marksmen, anxious to add to 
their already enviable records as members of the great 
police department of the city of Chicago, and withal, 
possessing hearts as brave and heads as cool as the 
greatest heroes of history, no wonder that they were 
willing and eager to accept the task which lay before 
. them — the task which ended in the death of on^ of 
them and the most desperate hand-to-hand struggle 
on the part of the other, to preserve his own life and 
capture the murderer of his partner, that graces the 
proud pages of the police department’s history. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The killing of detective quinn — blaul's famous 
BATTLE — MARX SMOKES CIGARETTES AND KEEPS 
SILENCE. 

Until 10 o’clock that Saturday evening, Detectives 
Blaul and Quinn walked the streets in search of Gus- 
tav Marx. Saloon after saloon was visited, but no 
trace of the *‘nian with the magazine gun” — for that 
was the only possible offense which at that time could 
have been placed against the young man on the police 
books — was found. 

Fearing lest they should betray their mission to 
some friend of the man they sought, the detectives 
made no inquiries but determined to accomplish by 
extra “leg work” what they might more easily have 
done by asking questions. 

They decided to take no chances on their quarry 
escaping them, especially inasmuch as their chief had 
admonished them to bring the suspect before him for 
examination. 


( 124 ) 


The Killing of Detective Quinn. 125 


Finally at the hour named, Blaul peered over the 
curtain in the front window of Greenberg’s saloon at 
Addison avenue and Robey street. 

Calmly he settled back from his tip-toe position and 
said to his companion : 

‘‘He’s in here, Jack.” 

“Good,” replied Quinn with a tinge of exultation in 
his voice, which was shared by the other detective, at 
the prospect of capturing the man so much desired 
by Schuettler. 

“You take the back door,” continued Detective 
Quinn, “and I’ll ‘brace’ him from the front.” 

Within the saloon, standing near the center of the 
bar, was Marx. He had just been served with a drink 
of whiskey, which set before him on the polished 
counter. Evidently he had had his fill of liquor for the 
evening and was not overly anxious to imbibe this 
lately ordered potion, as he was leisurely rolling a 
cigarette. 

Tall, straight and sinewy, smooth of countenance and 
well-dressed, a genuine “good-fellow” from a saloon- 
ist’s standpoint, for he invariably bought for everybody 
in the house and presented large bills in payment, 
Marx was indeed a favored customer wherever he 
went. 


126 The Killing of Detective Quinn. 

He had been treated with the usual obsequious at- 
tention in Greenberg’s, but he showed no disposition 
to enter into any extended conversation. Instead, his 
eye, steely and clear in spite of the liquor he had drunk, 
constantly roved about the place, often centering on 
a point in the bar mirror which gave him a good re- 
flective view of the front entrance of the saloon. 

He finished rolling his cigarette and was about to 
strike a match, when the front door opened and a man 
in citizens clothes entered. 

As he stepped around the screen, Marx, feigning 
nonchalance, cast a glance into the mirror. Out of 
the corner of his eye he could see another man come 
in by the rear door. 

“Hello, Gus,” said the first man mildly as he drew 
his hand from his right overcoat pocket, “I want—” 

If it were possible to divide a second into millionths, 
it might be possible to tell just what space of time 
elapsed after the speech of the policeman, before his 
mighty form lay writhing on the floor. 

''Bang, bang,” came the report of a revolver be- 
hind Marx, as satisfied that the fallen Quinn was done 
for, he whirled about and faced the intrepid Blaul. 

He felt a dead sensation in his right leg and his right 
shoulder was powerless. Quickly switching his 



JNfarx murders detective Quinn. His subsequent confession led to 
the capture of the ether members of the quartette. 







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The Killing of Detective Quinn. 129 

weapon to his left hand he leveled it at Blaul and fever- 
ishly began to pull the trigger, but his trusted pistol 
failed. The detective, however, continued to shoot. 

In blind desperation — it was the first time in his life 
that Marx had ever found his tools of homicide other 
than perfect — he rushed at his assailant, knowing full 
well that in a hand-to-hand encounter, few men could 
stand against him. 

But his wounded leg gave way and his arm failed to 
come up to position when he summoned it. Desper- 
ately he lurched forward and endeavored to gauge the 
distance through the powder smoke, that he might 
grasp the detective about the legs and down him by 
tactics best known and understood by men of his 
stamp. 

At that instant through the confusion and smoke, 
there came a shrill cry of anguish: 

“Billy — Billy — Fm done for — get an ambulance — for 
God’s sake call the wagon, I’m dying.” 

Neither Marx nor Blaul can accurately describe 
what occurred at that time. The detective and the 
murderer grappled — neither knowing exactly what he 
was about. There were no scientific holds. There was 
no system in the effort of either — unless it was exer- 
cised by Marx, handicapped as he was by his wounds. 


130 The Killing of Detective Quinn. 


Tliere have been occasions in history when a man, 
spurred on by the cries of his lady love has performed 
almost super-human and impossible deeds; there have 
been times when the cry of an infant has taken a man 
to his death in an effort at rescue; there are on his- 
tory’s page incidents of filial devotion in time of battle 
which have been sources of inspiration to school-chil- 
dren for generations, but Billy Blaul at this critical 
moment only heard the appeal of his friend and part- 
ner — the man who was dying because he went in the 
front door instead of the back — and he fought as a 
demon against the powerful cripple before him. 

By a lucky stroke of his pistol butt he stunned 
Marx. In a daze, he leaped to his feet and instinctively 
started toward the prostrate Quinn. 

^‘Look out!” 

It was one of Quinn’s dying gasps, but he warned 
his devoted partner just in time. Marx had regained 
his senses and was endeavoring to set his magazine 
gun. Turning at the dying detective’s warning, Blaul 
leaped upon Marx and disarmed him. 

^‘Get the ambulance, Billy, I’m dying,” Quinn im- 
plored again feebly. 

Above the form of the prostrate desperado was a tel- 
ephone. 


The Killing of Detective Quinn. 131 

Thinking only of saving the life of Quinn by getting 
him quickly to a hospital, Blaul unslung the receiver 
and called up the station. 

With a last desperate effort the wounded bandit 
reached for the revolver which had been kicked from 
his grasp and failing made another attempt to throw 
Blaul. 

^'Quick, Billy, I am in terrible pain,” moaned Quinn 
as clutching at his abdomen, he rolled from side to 
side on the dirty bar-room floor. 

With the desperation of a madman Blaul fought. 
Still clinging to the telephone receiver, he managed 
to kick Marx under the chin and then with his foot on 
the brigand’s neck, he awaited the word from the 
Sheffield avenue police station which told him that help 
and an ambulance for Quinn would soon arrive. 

Quinn died on the way to the hospital. Marx re- 
ceived but little medical attention. After his wounds 
had been superficially dressed he was carted off to the 
police station and cast into a cell, but not a word did 
he have to say, not a murmur did he emit. 

“He’s a game boy, whoever he is,” said the turnkey. 

“Have you anything to say?” was asked of Marx 
that night. 

“Have you a cigarette?” asked the prisoner quietly. 


132 The Killing of Detective Quinn. 

His demeanor, however, was due to the whiskey lie 
had drank. His cheap show of bravado only too soon 
was to melt into cowardly repentance. As the alcohol 
ceased to fire him, his spirits drooped and the terror of 
the gallows came upon him. The desperado was no 
more; instead there remained a badly frightened young 
man willing to do any cowardly, treacherous act to 
save his own neck. The first of these was the betrayal 
of his companions. He felt, however, or rather knew 
full well, that they were all cravens at heart and 
brought to bay any one of them would try to preserve 
his own life even at the expense of all the rest. 


CHAPTER XVL 


1 

i 

THE CONFESSION — STARTLING STORY OF’ MANY CRIMES 

— CITY IS ELECTRIFIED POLICE SEEK OTHER 

BANDITS. 

When the news spread over the city that a man with 
a magazine gun had been so desperately afraid of fall- 
ing into the hands of the police that he slew one police- 
man and sought to murder another in an effort to evade 
capture, a mild sensation followed. 

Everybody at once jumped at the conclusion that 
the murderer of Detective Quinn was one of the car- 
barn bandits. This hasty verdict was soon belittled, 
however, by Assistant Chief of Police Schuettler, who 
quickly announced that he had absolutely not one whit 
of evidence to connect this Gustave Marx with the car- 
barn mystery, other than that he carried an automatic 
gun and stood in great fear of arrest. The wounded 
prisoner was silent. He was booked on the charge 
of murdering Policeman Quinn and allowed to rest 
unmolested in his cell until the following day, which 
was Sunday. 


( 133 ) 


134 


The Confession. 


Sunday afternoon Schuettler had the prisoner 
brought from his cell and assisted into his office. 
There were gathered Detective Blaul, who captured 
the slayer of his partner, and several criminal experts. 
Marx was put through the usual ^'sweat-box’’ process 
in an effort to force from him an admission of com- 
plicity in the car-barn raid, but he remained imperturb- 
able, even under the merciless fire of questions and 
threats to which the officer subjected him. Through- 
out the ordeal he rolled cigarettes, smoked in silence, 
or answered in monosyllabic negatives, the persistent 
queries of the assistant chief. The whiskey had not 
quite worn off. 

After several sessions of this nature, Schuettler 
finally accomplished his object, and Chicago was soon 
afterward electrified to read the hideous details of the 
car-barn robbery and murders, from the lips of one of 
the participants in the raid. 

More than that, it read the stories of many other 
crimes and murders, as confessed by a member of the 
"Magazine Trio.” The situation on the occasion of the 
confession was dramatic in the extreme. 

Throughout his remarkable statement Marx re- 
mained cool and collected. He betrayed not the slight- 
est emotion. 


( 


The Confession. 


135 


**lt was whiskey that did it,” he said philosophically. 
^Tf I hadn’t been fool enough to switch from beer to 
whiskey that night I showed my magazine gun in that 
saloon, I wouldn’t be here now.” 

At that moment Detective Blaul entered the room 
where Marx was sitting with his chair tilted back 
against the wall, blowing rings of cigarette smoke in 
the air with as much abandon as though his story were 
one of heroism in the cause of suffering humanity, in- 
stead of a terrible admission of participation in deeds 
of blood which had appalled all who heard it. 

‘'Good evening,” said Marx formally to the de- 
tective. 

“Good evening,” as stiffly replied Blaul. 

“I was just about to remark that if my ‘automatic’ 
had worked Saturday night. I’d have killed you as 
quickly as I did your fine partner, Quinn,” brazenly 
remarked the young desperado. “By the way,” he 
continued, still addressing the detective, “have you a 
couple of matches?” 

Without a tremor in his voice; speaking in a steady, 
low monotone, as one entirely unconcerned in the pro- 
ceedings of which he was the central figure, Marx 
told and retold the revolting story, the salient portions 
of which were reduced to skeletonized form by Assist- 


136 


The Confession. 


ant Chief Schuettler and signed by the bandit in the 
presence of several witnesses. It developed later that 
Marx’s coolness was due entirely to the fact that he 
supposed his confession would save his neck. 

Two minutes after he had first mentioned the names 
of his accomplices in crime, the descriptions of Van 
Dine, Niedermeier and Roeske were flashed through- 
out the world. Their homes were ransacked by de- 
tectives and the city and surrounding country were 
scoured to the farthermost nook and corner for traces 
of them, but they could not be found. Their relatives, 
including their mothers, none of whom would believe 
their sons guilty, were brought to the station and ques- 
tioned to no avail. 

'‘You’ll never get any of that bunch alive,” drily 
warned Marx. “They could shoot the fillings out of 
your teeth three blocks away, and they don’t like po- 
licemen anyway. You fellows will have a worse game 
on your hands than those two bulls had in my case, if 
you run across them. You’ll get just what Blaul would 
have got if that gun of mine had not gone back on me. 

“There’s another thing I want to say. They’ve been 
making out right along that we never gave anybody a 
chance for his life, and that we shot down those guys 
out at the car barns without giving them the slightest 


The Confession. 


137 


warning. Thaf s a pack of lies. We always told people 
to throw up their hands. I walked right past that 
office window where Niedermeier shot through, and 
went into the outer office and shoved my gun through 
the grating. I told those guys plainly to hold up their 
hands, and they didn’t do so. 

“When I asked Pete later why he had begun shoot- 
ing so soon, he said he had to. That’s all the explana- 
tion I ever got.” 

Although there was not the slightest tinge of brag- 
gadocio in his manner of expressing himself, Marx, 
on several occasions after his arrest, made the plain 
and unvarnished statement that he and his companions 
considered members of the Police Department legiti- 
mate prey — ^persons fit only for killing on the slightest 
provocation. 

He spent his time in the lockup, where he was kept 
under double guard, in reading novels and smoking 
cigarettes. He was at no time talkative, but replied to 
questions with great willingness. He failed even to 
complain of his wounds, which were very painful. Tall 
and athletic, his physique, exposed when a surgeon 
dressed his injuries, was a source of admiration on the 
part of those who viewed his body at close range. 

Detective John Quinn was one of the most efficient 


138 


The Confession. 


and popular members of the Police Department. He 
left a widow and two children, and his funeral was 
attended by hundreds of mourners, both in and out of 
the department. 

As the cortege slowly wended its way along Shef- 
field avenue, past the police station where Marx was 
confined in a basement cell, the dirge of the band pen- 
etrated to the gloomy recesses of the lockup. At the 
time Marx was reclining languidly on his bunk, blow- 
ing wreaths of blue smoke out through the iron grat- 
ing, deeply immersed in a thrilling French story of 
love and adventure. 

“What’s the racket out there?” he asked one of the 
guards. 

“That is the band playing in front of the funeral pro- 
cession,” was the sad reply of the jailer. “Poor John 
Quinn is being carried to his last resting place today.” 

There was an eager stretching of necks as those in 
the vicinity waited with bated interest to hear how the 
answer would affect the prisoner. 

“Is that so? Well, well.” And then he added, as if 
communing with himself: 

“If my revolver had not failed to work, I would not 
be your guest now and there would be two hearses 
instead of one in that little circus parade. One Mr. 


The Confession. 


139 


Blaul would be inside of the other one, and that's no 
idle joke, either.” 

One of the policemen quietly remarked: 

“You have put a rope around that neck of yours and 
you will not ride in a hearse, either.” 

A mocking laugh was the only reply to this ominous 
observation. The man in the cell stretched one mus- 
cular hand up to his throat and spread his long fingers 
about the front of his neck. 

“We’ll see how good a prophet you are. But don’t 
you go to making any rash bets. There’s many a 
slip, you know.” 

When this casual statement of the bandit was com- 
municated to Assistant Chief Schuettler, he showed 
that he attached some significance to it, by^ immedi- 
ately ordering extraordinary precautions taken to pre- 
vent the escape of the prisoner, or a possible attempt 
at rescue. How wise this supposition of Schuettler 
was, and how near the Scheffield avenue station came 
to being the scene of a tragedy which would have 
eclipsed anything that the car-barn bandits had ever 
figured in, was discovered later, to the amazement of 
all concerned. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


MARXES SWORN STATEMENT — UNDER OATH REVEALS THE 

PAST — TELLS PART HE TOOK IN CAR-BARN MURDER 
AND SUBSEQUENT FLIGHT. 

Shorn of all romance and dealing in cold, hard facts 
as he saw them, one of the most interesting documents 
ever placed in the hands of the officers is the confession 
which Marx made after his capture. 

It was given freely and apparently without reserve, 
and was in itself the cool declaration of a man who 
was in the shadow of the gallows — a man for whose 
neck the noose seemed already knotted. 

Inasmuch as it was so fraught with history, and 
played such a prominent part, not only in the capture 
of his confederates, but also when he himself faced a 
jury of his peers who were to try him for his life, it is 
herewith given verbatim: 

“STATE OF ILLINOIS, 

“COUNTY OF COOK, ss. 

“I, Gustav Marx, twenty-one years old and now con- 
fined in the Sheffield avenue police station on a charge 
of murder, having shot Police Officer John Quinn, on 

( 140 ) 


Marx's Sworn Statement. 


141 


the night of November 21, 1903, at about 10 o’clock, 
in Greenburg’s saloon, southwest corner of Robey and 
Addison streets, without any. promise of immunity, 
make the following statement, to-wit: 

“The crimes in which I have been implicated are : 

“The street car-barn robbery. Sixty-first and State 
streets, of the Chicago City Railway, about August 30, 
1903. I committed said crime with the assistance of 
Harvey Van Dine and Peter Niedermeier. 

“I also committed the robbery in a saloon at the 
southeast corner of Otto street and Ashland avenue, 
with Harvey Van Dine and Emil Roeske. I saw a 
young man getting shot there. Roeske went into the 
saloon and got a glass of beer. He was supposed to 
be the stranger. Van Dine and myself went into the 
saloon by the front door. 

“We ordered them to hold up their hands and the 
young man started to run out, and Roeske shot him 
in the back. I and Van Dine stood guard and Roeske 
robbed the till. 

“All of us fired some shots. I fired into the ceiling. 

“In the car-barn robbery I went in and ordered 
them to hold up their hands. They obeyed my com- 
mands. Just then Peter Niedermeier burst in the 
window and commenced shooting. 

‘‘Harvey Van Dine broke down the door with a 


142 


Marx's Sworn Statement. 


sledge hammer. Van Dine went in and took the 
money. We all three ran away and walked east on 
Sixty-first street to Jackson Park, and sat down in the 
bushes and divided the money. • 

“This was about $2,250, of which sum I got about 
$750 as my share. We then got on a Cottage Grove 
avenue car and came down town. We parted down 
around Clark and Randolph streets from Van Dine. 
Myself and Niedermeier then took an elevated train 
and went west to the end of the road. We stayed there 
about an hour or so, then came back down town, 
where we went into a bowling alley. We then parted. 
I went to a hotel on West Madison street, where I 
secured a room for myself. 

“The next day I met Van Dine and Niedermeier at 
Humboldt park and we sat around there for about two 
hours. Van Dine then started for home, and Nieder- 
meier and myself then took a train on the Northwest- 
ern road to Denver, Colorado. 

“We stayed in Denver one day, then went to Cripple 
Creek and stayed there about a week, and then came 
back to Chicago. 

(Signed) “GUSTAV MARX.'' 

Witnesses: (Signed) 

Frederick J. Gabriel. George L. Richardson. 

. Frank E. Link. H. F. Schuettler. 

John C. Torlor. Otto Haerle. 


Marx's Sworn Statement. 


143 


Marx makes the following statement and confession 
of his own free will regarding his other crimes : 

‘‘I hereby make the following statement of my own 
free will: 

“I received the following information in regard to 
following crimes: 

“The robbery committed at Clybourn Junction 
depot, Northwestern railroad, was done by Peter Nied- 
ermeier and Emil Roeske, they having told me them- 
selves. Also the robbery and murder in a saloon at 
the corner of North avenue and Forty-seventh avenue; 
this crime was committed by Harvey Van Dine and 
Peter Niedermeier August first. 

“Also the robbery and assault in the saloon of Peter 
Gorski, 2611 Milwaukee avenue; this crime was com- 
mitted by Harvey Van Dine and Emil Roeske. 

“He also said the robbery at Greenburg’s saloon, 
southwest corner of Robey street and Addison ave- 
nue, was committed by Emil Roeske. 

“Also the robbery of the saloon on Roscoe street 
and Sheffield avenue was committed by Harvey Van 
Dine and Emil Roeske. 

“All this information was given to me by the within 
named parties by word of mouth and actions. 

(Signed) “GUSTAV MARX.” 


144 


Marx's Sworn Statement 


It will be noticed that in some of the minor details 
the confession as sworn to by Marx disagreed with 
confessions made by the other bandits after they were 
captured. It must be remembered, however, that the 
confession was made at a time when there was im- 
mense excitement; when the room where the confes- 
sion was made was crowded with detectives, reporters 
and others, and was the result of a boiling down of a 
much more lengthy verbal confession made to Assist- 
ant Chief Schuettler. 

Its main points, however, agree in almost all particu- 
lars with the evidence as produced and corroborated at 
the subsequent trials. This makes it all the more re- 
markable as a document, because it illustrates in a 
startling manner the memory and great coolness of 
mind of this young desperado. It shows, too, that of 
all those present, he was the least perturbed. 

Marx at this time was suffering from grievous 
wounds, which had received but slight dressing and 
attention, and he must have suffered considerable pain. 
Whatever he experienced, however, there was no be- 
trayal of feeling in his mien. This confession was 
given as though he were detailing incidents with which 
he had no great connection, and in which, he was at 
the most, but a mild participant. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PLOT TO BLOW UP THE STATION — ^AIMING AT 
SCHUETTLER — HAUNTING HOME OF BLAUL. 

During the time that the police were attempting to 
wring a confession from Marx, the Sheffield avenue 
police station and all who entered it were in moment- 
ary danger of destruction. The lockup and the lives 
of its keepers hung on the brink of a terrible abyss. 

All during the Sunday night while Marx was being 
^Weated,” and even after he had confessed on Mon- 
day, there might have been seen lurking in the shad- 
owy gloom of the alley which runs between the station 
house and the big Lincoln Turner Hall structure, 
which fronts on Diversey avenue, three silent figures. 

His eyes must have been extremely keen, however, 
who would have seen them, as they flitted noiselessly 
to and fro. To the casual observer none of them 
would have been taken for human forms. 

Occasionally, one of the figures would waft close to 
the station wall. A footstep on the walk would be 


( 145 > 


146 The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 


heard, and the form would vanish. Again, all three 
figures would seemingly merge into one, but there 
was no sound — no indication that anything human trod 
the pavement of the station alley. 

Had anyone been in a position to overhear the whis- 
perings that lost themselves on the night mist which 
enshrouded these figures, he might have heard some- 
thing like this: 

‘'Let’s touch her off, Pete, and blow a hole right 
through here.” 

“No, Harvey; don’t you see, if you do that you’re 
liable to kill Gus? If we knew exactly where his cell 
is, it would be different.” 

“Suppose we send Roeske into the station with a 
fake note from Mrs. Marx to Gus, and see if he can’t 
get down there and find out. They’ll never ‘get next.’ 
The very nerve of the thing will throw them off.” 

“Not on your life. Some of them guys know me as 
well as you do. I ain’t going to stick my neck into it 
any sooner than I have to. Just give me that dyna- 
mite, though, and I’ll show you how we can find out 
where Gus is, quick enough.” 

“Yes, and kill him finding out.” 

“Well, he’s as good as dead where he is now. They 


The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 141 


won^t do a thing to him for killing that copper; and 
besides, suppose he should squeal.” 

“Never you fear about Gus Marx doing any squeal- 
ing. He’ll stick ‘till the cows come home.’ ” 

“Let’s set fire to the Turner Hall and then when 
most of them get out into the excitement, we’ll rush 
in and shoot those that are left. We can plug the desk 
sergeant, nail the operator, and then shoot the lockup 
keeper and get his keys. The rest will be easy.” 

“But suppose the lockup guy is inside the grating? 
What good will it do to croak him?” 

“Why, you fool, what have we been holding onto 
this dynamite for all this time, but for emergencies like 
this?” 

“Oh, h ! I’m for touching the whole works off 

from the outside.” 

“I’ll tell you what we’d better do. It will be better 
than blowing up the station and taking a chance on 
killing Gus. That copper Blaul is the only witness 
against him that amounts to anything. Let’s wait 
and put him out of the way. Then we’U get Schuettler, 
before he has a chance to bluff Gus into making any 
rash cracks. If there are any more that need fixing, 
then we’ll plug them. That’s our graft and we don’t 


148 The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 


know anything about handling this dynamite stuff. 
Let's do the thing we know how to do best.” 

A few more almost inaudible whisperings and the 
alley was empty. 

The remainder of the night, however, the same three 
noiseless, phantom-like figures might have been seen 
haunting the vicinity of Detective Blaul's home. The 
officer was busy, however, working on the car-barn 
case and failed to return until long after daylight. 
Later, developments and assertions by the outlaws 
showed that this fact saved him from being shot down 
on his own doorstep. 

Pursuant to their solemn oath to rescue each other 
in case any member of the band should fall into the 
hands of the law. Van Dine and Niedermeier, who had 
immediately been joined by Roeske upon the news of 
Marx’ arrest, set about to fulfill their pledge. First 
they procured from its hiding place several sticks of 
dynamite — enough, in fact, to blow up a block of sky- 
.scrapers. 

With that contempt for the police which was such a 
strong part of their natures, they hovered in the vicin- 
ity of the police station where Marx was confined, and 
planned to raze it with the explosive. 

It occurred to them, however, that this course would 
IhQSt likely \\\ death pf the man \v]\om they 



The proposed liberation of Marx at the Sheffield Ave. Police Station 













The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 151 


sought to rescue. Then it was suggested that they 
blow up only a portion of the structure, creating an 
aperture, through which they might dash, and in the 
resultant confusion, liberate their confederate. They 
were unable to ascertain the exact location of Marx’ 
cell, and it was probably solely due to their lack of 
familiarity with the interior arrangement of the station 
house, that they failed to use the dynamite. 

The bandits did not despair of freeing Marx, on ac- 
count of this discovery, but set to work upon a new 
plan, which entailed greater personal risk, a plan en- 
tirely characteristic of their audacity and foolhardiness. 

They rented a room across the street from the police 
station. Van Dine, supposedly, was its occupant, the 
others, merely friends who occasionally visited him. 
Concealed beneath an overcoat, a repeating rifle of 
heavy caliber was carried into the room. 

^Tf we catch Schuettler near that window,^’ said 
Niedermeier, ‘'one shot will do for him. Then there 
will be all kinds of a racket in the station and every- 
body will run out. The one who stays in our room 
with the repeater can keep her going. Any one of us 
is good for a man with every shot. The other two can 
be within a few feet of the station door and rush in. 
With two magazine guns apiece, and the fellow up in 


162 The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 


the window doing business, we ought to drag Gus out 
of there in short order. We can take a couple of guns 

along for him, too, and all the police this side of h 

won’t stop us.” 

It was by the merest chance that this bold plan of 
the desperadoes was not carried out. According to the 
arrangement, in order to permit of better shooting, the 
deed was to have been done in daylight, and the early 
hours of Tuesday morning were fixed upon. 

There was yet another bit of work which the bandits 
had in mind, which they felt would be best served by 
darkness. This was the murder of Detective Blaul, 
the man who captured Marx after the latter had slain 
Detective Quinn. Figuring that they could accom- 
plish this during the night, or in the early hours of the 
morning, by waylaying the officer after his all-night’s 
task of searching for them, the outlaws repaired to the 
detective’s home and secreted themselves at different 
points, where they each could obtain a clear view of 
the front entrance. 

Their vigil, however, was vain, as Blaul, who grieved 
deeply over the demise of his partner and friend, and 
who had sworn to avenge his murder, wasted no time 
in sleep. This pertinacity saved his life, for there were 
three automatic guns leveled at his doorstep that Mon- 


The Plot To Blow Up The Station. 153 

day night, awaiting his approach to belch forth their 
messengers of death. 

With curses for their victim who failed to appear, 
and with renewed expressions of determination to 
complete their plot at the police station on the mor- 
row, the disappointed trio went home and to bed ; Van 
Dine and Niedermeier sleeping together. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE ALARM AND FLIGHT — LEAVING FOR THE WILDER- 
NESS — THE DUG-OUT IN THE SAND-DUNES. 

It was early in the morning; so early that the earliest 
workers were passing in front of the Van Dine resi- 
dence, whistling with honest consciences and looking 
forward to the blowing of the seven o’clock whistles 
that would announce to the world that commerce and 
its manifold branches had resumed sway, when there 
came a hurried rap at the Van Dine kitchen door. It 
was opened by Mrs. Van Dine, who w^as astonished to 
see Roeske in his usual slovenly attire standing before 
her. 

‘'Good morning,” she said, holding the door open. 

“I guess you know me,” was the response. ‘T am 
Emil Roeske and I want to see Harvey right away.” 

“But he isn’t up yet,” said Mrs. Van Dine. “He 
came in late last night and his chum Niedermeier is 
with him. He slept here last night.” 

“So much the better,” said Roeske. “But I want to 

( 154 ) 



Roeske warns Van Dine and Niedermeier that Marx has confessed. 


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The Alarm and Flight. 157 

see Harvey right away, as I think I know of a place 
where he can get a job.” 

“Well, you can go right up to his room,” said the 
good woman, overjoyed at the thought that her boy 
was to have employment again, which would doubtless 
end his late hours and bring him back to the old habits 
which were so dear to her heart. 

With a sigh, she turned to her work as Roeske 
mounted the stairs. 

“What do you want?” sleepily asked Van Dine, as 
Roeske reached over and aroused him. 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Niedermeier, with an illy 
concealed sneer, as he started at the sound of voices 
and involuntarily reached for the dread magazine gun. 

“Yes, it’s me,” said Roeske. “You fellows haven’t 
treated me jight, but I’ll show you I mean business 
yet and am on the square.” 

“Well, what are you here for?” demanded both his 
auditors at once. 

“Marx has confessed.” 

Like the throwing of a bomb was the effect of 
Roeske’s words on the two bandits, both of whom 
sprang from bed at once, as though electrified, 

He!'’ sparled Niedermeier* 


158 


The Alarm and Flight. 


“What makes you think so?” queried the cooler Van 
Dine. 

“Because I have a paper in my pocket that says so,” 
heatedly answered Roeske, addressing himself to Van 
Dine. Even as they spoke, there was a rush of news- 
boys down the street, shouting: “Uxtry! Uxtry! All 
about the confession of Marx, the car-barn bandit!” 

It was plainly no time to hesitate. They listened 
with bated breath as the boys ran shouting down the 
street. They did not even stop to read the paper which 
RoCske had produced from his pocket, but each 
reached forward and grasped his hand in a way that 
showed that in the mutual danger all the past differ- 
ences were to be forgotten, and that to the last they 
would fight together to escape from this terrible mesh 
of the law that was encircling them — reaching out with 
long fingers to entangle them, to relentlessly and coldly 
drag them to the gallows. For the first time in their 
careers, the faces of the car-barn bandits blanched as 
by prescience they saw that dread figure of outraged 
justice reaching toward them. “Guilt is always timid.” 

As though escaping from a fire, they hastily dressed. 
Van Dine sprang to a closet, where he seized a box of 
cartridges and added to those which were lying on the 
table. Niedermeier calmly looked at his weapon and 


The Alarm and Flight. 


159 


thrust it into his pocket, where he could have quick 
access to it, and then stepped to a peephole in the 
window, from which he could survey the street. 

Roeske, in the meantime, sat as though stupified at 
the overwhelming finish that now stared him in the 
face, a culmination he had not expected. 

'‘No one out there,” exclaimed Niedernieier, as he 
turned to where Van Dine stood, dressed and waiting. 

They started down the stairs. 

"Hold on, boys,” commanded Van Dine in a low 
voice. They waited, thinking he had re-entered his 
room to secure some more ammunition. Probably 
they would have sneered, had they seen him step in- 
side, take one look around and step to his dresser. He 
stopped and took from a little wire easel a picture, that 
of his sweetheart — the girl who still believed him above 
reproach, who trusted him to the fullest extent, and 
who would continue to do so until the day he reached 
the gallows. 

Another sweeping glance around that pleasant little 
room, with its neat hangings, its curios collected since 
the days of his boyish innocence, the keepsakes from 
friends, the gifts from relatives and the thousand and 
one little things betokening a good mothers love. 

Heaven alone can tell what regrets, at that instant, 


160 


The Alarm and Flight. 


swept through Harvey Van Bine’s mind; what long- 
ings for the old times of innocence, now that "the end 
of his criminal career was upon him. Perhaps he still 
had a vague hope in his heart, that he would again see 
this quiet little refuge and again rest in security in its 
shelter. If so, could he have looked forward but a few 
hours, he would have realized the futility of that hope ; 
he would have understood that at last the majestic law, 
slow moving sometimes, but always sure, was even 
then throwing its toils about him. 

His meditations were interrupted by a hoarse whis- 
per. 

“What are you standing there for, when the cops 
are liable to be down on us at any minute?” 

It was Niedermeier, fierce in his wrath, knowing 
none of those finer feelings that animated his partner, 
that startled Van Dine from his dreams. 

In an instant Van Dine was again, simply the escap- 
ing bandit. 

“Why, you are in a dreadful hurry, aren’t you?” said 
Mrs. Van Dine, as the boys entered the kitchen pre- 
paratory to taking their departure. 

'Wes, we can’t even wait for breakfast, mother,” 
answered Van Dine, and then giving way to the rem- 


The Alarm and Flight. 


161 


nants of his better self, he put his arms around his 
mother’s neck and gazed steadily into her eyes. 

She returned the gaze with all a mother’s love, little 
thinking that this was the last time she would thus 
look upon him, believing him untainted and innocent. 
As little, too, did she realize that he was even then 
leaving the old home for the last time, and that when 
she next saw him, it would be through prison bars, 
wounded, spent and sore, and with other crimes fast- 
ened upon his hands, already so crimsoned with 
blood. 

Niedermeier manifested signs of uneasiness, and the 
trio, after bidding Mrs. Van Dine good-bye, turned 
and through the rear way entered upon a street, walk- 
ing rapidly toward a car line which would carry' them to 
the very heart of the business section, from which, 
they calculated, with good generalship, they could the 
more readily escape. 

As they went out the back way the door bell at the 
Van Dine home rang and officers in citizen’s clothes 
demanded from the startled Mrs. Van Dine whether 
she had any knowledge of her son’s whereabouts. 

Once in the street-car, with all the bravado that had 
marked their every movement, the bandits began to 
make plans for their escape. 


162 


TiiE Alarm and Flight. 


“I know where there is a good place we can hide in 
until all this blows over a little,” said Van Dine. “It is 
a place where I went hunting a few years ago, which I 
passed last fall. It is a dugout, down on the sand- 
dunes and across the Indiana state line, about thirty 
miles below here.” 

The others, as usual, trusted to his superior judg- 
ment and unhesitatingly followed his lead. They 
bought a scant store of provisions and quickly avoiding 
officers, keeping a keen eye for detectives, they started 
on their journey. 

Again, had their very boldness favored them; again, 
had they thrown off by sheer nerve, the hounds of the 
law that were unleashed upon them and which even 
now were hot on the scent that was to end in their 
capture. 

They boarded an elevated train and rode to Stony 
Island avenue. There they took a South Chicago car 
and walked to the end of the line. Then they walked 
across the sand-dunes until they found a dugout and 
entered. It was not suited to their purpose, so they 
wandered to another one a mile away. 

This contained all they could expect, and it was fit- 
ted up as though abandoned by some hunter at a recent 
date. In it were a table, some straw which would 


The Alarm and Flight. 163 

serve as a bed, a rough stool and some old cooking 
utensils. 

It was located in an ideal spot for their purpose, in 
an exceedingly rough country, where hill after hill 
arises, dotted with scrub pine trees and with shifting 
sands that would obliterate with speed all marks of 
footprints; a veritable fortress in a veritable wilder- 
ness. Their domicile, half hut and mere hovel, half 
above ground and half beneath, oflered a shelter as 
secure as any block-house and nearly as impregnable 
to assault. 

Only a little way off the wintry waters of Lake 
Michigan boomed heedlessly against the shores of a 
November sea. Only the roar of nearby trains brought 
to their mind that they were still in touch with civiliza- 
tion, dissipating the dream of a frontier fastness as 
inaccessible as the infamous but beautiful “Hole-in-the 
Wall” of Wyoming. 

The car-barn bandits had chosen well the place for 
what proved to be their last stand, , and for the time 
they were lost alike to officers of the law, old time 
friends and weeping mothers. 


CHAPTER XX. 


LIFE IN THE DUG-OUT — THE PLOT TO ROB THE EXPRESS 
THE ALARM. 

“We’ve beat them out — we’ve beat them out,” fairly 
yelled Van Dine with fierce exultation, as he stood at 
the cabin door on the following evening and remarked 
on the fact, that all day long no human being had 
passed their retreat. 

“But we can’t live any longer without grub,” came 
Niedermeier’s comment from the inside. 

“What’s the use in worrying about that?” demanded 
Van Dine, “We can go over to Pine station tonight 
and get some stuff to run us as long as we will want 
to stay here.” 

Then, with the characteristic bravado and careless- 
ness which had marked the every move of this re- 
markable trio, they began to plan other crimes and 
other means of eluding pursuit. 

The following day it began to snow. This, in a 
rn^^3i4re, proved their undoing, Finding thf lardef 


Life In 1'he Dug-out. 


165 


running low, they walked to Pine, where the advent of 
a stranger at any time attracted attention. Announc- 
ing that they were hunters who were camped a short 
distance from there, they purchased such supplies as 
they needed. They bought with such carelessness and 
apparent extravagance that even the store-keeper be- 
lieved he must have millionaires for customers. In 
payment for some sausage they each drew forth a roll 
of bills, which they flashed with the air of men who 
were used to handling and spending large sums. 

The store-keepers eyes widened, as he saw this 
seeming great wealth, and after his customers had de- 
parted, he began to discuss them with others who had 
been there, as silent witnesses to the scene. 

In the meantime the bandits, with their newly gained 
and sufficient supply of food, were wending their way 
to the dugout, not noting the fact that they were leav- 
ing in the snow a trail that could be followed with ease 
to their hiding place. 

The evening was passed in singing songs, for in this 
remote place there were none to listen to the sounds of 
revelry. Indeed, had there been such, the very bold- 
ness and noise of the hilarity would have disarmed sus- 
picion; for who but a party of jolly hunters would 
exhibit such light-heartedness and lack of care? Cer- 


166 


Life In The DuG-ouTf 


tainly it could not be that these were the dreaded car- 
barn bandits, who had ruthlessly shot down man after 
man, eluded the best trained detective and police force 
in the entire West, and sought refuge in a dugout in 
the sand-dunes! 

On the following day. Van Dine in a serious mood 
called the attention of the others to the fact that it was 
time for them to plan for an escape to a new country. 

“It won’t do for us to stay here forever,” he argued, 
“and we haven’t money enough left between us all to 
get away any distance.” 

They counted their entire funds and found that only 
$i lo remained between them. Only this amount from 
a series of murderous robberies that had netted over 
two thousand dollars. 

With lower talk, they discussed plans for another 
bold dash into the very face of the enemy, trusting to 
the unexpectedness of the attempt to guarantee its 
success. 

“I have often thought,” explained Van Dine, “that 
if we went at it right, we could get one of those big 
express boxes that are used for carrying treasure to 
the Northwestern depot. When I worked for that road 
they always used to ship the big sums of gold to the 
West on Tuesday nights, and if there was some way 


Life In The Dug-out. 


167 


vve could get hold of one of those boxes we would have 
enough to get away from this country and go to the 
Pacific coast until things are forgotten here.” 

*T know the way,” volunteered Niedermeier. ‘Tt is 
this: We will all go to Chicago next Tuesday night, 
wait until the express wagon carrying the treasure 
comes into the darkness of Kinzie street, after it turns 
off Clark street, and then get busy.” 

“But how?” asked Roeske, who was ever slow to 
grasp a plan. 

“Why, we’ll ask them to give us the money,” leered 
Niedermeier. Then, turning to Van Dine, with a more 
serious face, he said: “There are usually two and 
sometimes three men on those treasure-wagons. A 
driver and either one or two shotgun messengers. 
What we want to do is to take no chances. We can 
jump out of the darkness, shoot the driver and the 
messengers before they get a chance to put up any 
fight, pile into the wagon and drive it out of town some 
place, and then crack the box open and get away.” 

“Yes,” assented Van Dine, “that would be the best 
place, get the coin and then come back here and lay 
quiet for a day or so, after which we could go over to 
Miller’s and catch a train out of the country.” 

After pifiny discussions, this was the plan agreed 


16P 


Life In Tpie Dug-out. 


upon, and far into the night the hardened bandits sat 
up consummating their plans and selecting the places 
to which they could go. 

Roeske in the meantime took but little part in the 
conversation and seemed cowed by terror. Not only 
the terror of possible capture, but also terror of Nied- 
ermeier, whom he had several times seen contemplat- 
ing him with a look that sent shivers up and down his 
spine and made him feel that his life was not safe so 
long as he was with him. 

Roeske, however, felt that his only chance for safety 
lay in concealing this fear and keeping on good terms 
with his companions until such time as he could leave 
them for good, and strike out into new and independent 
paths. 

On the following day, they again went to Pine sta- 
tion for a fresh supply of sausage and again trampled 
a trail through the snow. That night they retired to 
rest, undisturbed by foreboding and only looking for- 
ward to the time when they could again take to the 
road, replenish their purses and make a clean escape 
to an unknown country. 

So secure were they in their fastness that they made 
their beds up with unusual care, and undressed to their 
underwear, in the hope of gaining a good rest. 


Life In The Dug-out. 


169 


Darkness still clouded the interior of the dugout, 
and all within slept soundly, when “Crash!” went the 
chimney, and all started to their feet. 

“What was that?” whispered Niedermeier. 

“Guess it was the wind,” replied Van Dine, after 
waiting a few minutes and listening with strained 
nerves and steady eyelids. 

“Hello, in there!” came a shout, and the law was 
upon them. Instantly, all within the cabin became 
confusion ; each of the bandits springing into his cloth- 
ing with great celerity, clutching or keeping within 
reach the magazine guns that were that day to play 
such a deadly part in the battle of the dugout; a battle 
the news of which went around the world borne on the 
wings of the telegraph. A battle that made all other 
news of the day seem insignificant and paltry ; a battle 
which carried desolation to more than one home and 
more than one family. 


CHAPTER XXL 


CHICAGO EXCITED — FEARS OF MOB — RUSE OF OFFICERS — 
AT THE CITY HALL. 

Tiirbid with excitement, a city of millions swung 
around bulletin- boards, staring wonderingly at each 
passing patrol wagon, or surging madly forward when 
a detachment of blue-coated officers started from the 
City Hall. 

In newspaper offices, men worked with clock-like 
reg'ularity, driven like locomotives whose boilers were 
filled to the full with surcharged steam. Reporters 
scurried to and fro, and over hundreds of wires clicked 
the bulletins announcing to the world that almost 
within the city limits a battle, the like of which was 
unknown in the annals of modern police warfare, was 
being fought with desperation. 

Newsboys emerged from the press-rooms of the 
great dailies and scattered tempestuously through the 
streets, shrieking the news that another extra had 
been issued; that other details were at hand, Business 


Chicago Excited. 


171 


men, staid and old, young and bustling, stopped and 
purchased them as they came, and each and all won- 
dered with amazement that such things could be, that 
such events could happen. 

It seemed a violent upsetting of the order of things 
— a reversal of tradition. A battle of the turbulent and 
lawless frontier, transplanted from its natural environ- 
ment of wide plains and high mountains, of brawling 
streams and deep wooded ravines, to the borders of one 
of the largest cities in the world. An earnest battle, 
too, in which brave men were dying, in which hardy 
men were trudging through the snow in pursuit of 
what? Three bandits, not one of whom was more than 
a mere youth. 

Chicago, with its great commercialism, used to the 
strife of strikes, bearing in memory that hated day 
when anarchy reared a sullen crest and boldly threw 
its hissing bombs — Chicago, inured to street riots and 
bloody conflicts, stood aghast, amazed and horrified.' 

Then, as extra after extra was issued and sown 
broadcast, the feeling of surprise gave way to a demand 
for revenge — the cry that creates mobs; that primitive 
desire that rests dormant in all men until weakened by 
some sudden sharp recall — the desire to take the law 


in 


Chicago Excited. 


into one’s own hands and demand blood atonement in 
redress for flagrant outrage. 

^The car-barn murderers were at bay!” 

From mouth to mouth it passed. “A special train 
had carried a force of men who had been fired upon. 
They had seen their own numbers decimated under a 
deadly fusilade. Other men had been called for and 
gone. Others were yet to go. They had captured 
them. No — they had escaped. They had disappeared. 
They had been seen at Millers. They had been seen 
entering the city. They had boarded a train and fled.” 
So the news, conflicting, but always of the same nature, 
passed; in some cases augmented In horrible detail, in 
others, lacking even the versimilitude of truth. 

When an ambulance tore madly up the street, it was 
taken for granted that it conveyed some wounded suf- 
ferer from the battle scene; and all the time came the 
cumulative demand of the people for capture and ven- 
geance. 

So loud became this cry, that as the afternoon 
shadows began to fill the cavernous ravines between 
the skyscrapers, mob spirit became rife. In dozens of 
places were grouped men who stood sullenly discuss- 
ing the latest news, men wanting but a rope to do exe- 
cution were the bandits once within their reach. 


Chicago Excited. 


173 


At the City Hall the scene was one of greater ex- 
citement, for here was the city^s storm center. The 
crowd became so dense and menacing that extra offi- 
cers were called, until every avenue leading through 
the old stone pile was lined with bluecoats and loiterers 
met with the constant command, “Move on. Move 
on,” for these men of the law knew the meaning of 
that ugly front, and although their sympathies may 
have been with that unspoken cry of the mob for 
action and lynching, their training proved stronger and 
they unwaveringly represented the law and order they 
had sworn to enforce. 

When the news came that the men had been cap- 
tured and were en route to the city, the throng thick- 
ened until even the efforts of the police seemed des- 
tined to prove inadequate. A report was suddenly 
whispered from man to man that the bandits would be 
brought to a down-town station on the Illinois Cen- 
tral Railway. It spread like wild fire and the mob 
turned In that direction. But the officers had been 
astute. They had removed the men from the train 
which bore them to the city at the Archer avenue sta- 
tion on the Pennsylvania Railroad, far distant from 
the down-town depots, and even then they were being 
(Iriyen rapidly toward the City Hall They cam^ 




174 


Chicago Excited. 


a procession, patrol wagon after patrol wagon, all driv- 
ing rapidly and filled with men who had taken part in 
the battle. Some wounded, all footsore and wearied, 
and all glad that the day’s work was done. 

In two of these wagons were the captured desper- 
adoes; blood-matted, unwashed, hungry and trapped. 
As the wagons emptied their burdens and the bandits 
were hastily led to the chief’s office, the throng closed 
in upon them, and again the police were kept busy in 
holding back the mob. 

Once in a while a shout would be heard: ^‘Hang 
them! Hang them!” 

Then would come that quick, sharp rush of officers 
and the mob spirit would be suddenly quelled by a 
quick swinging club, or the hasty and violent ejectment 
into the street of some particularly active leader. The 
crowd soon learned its lesson, but it took hours to 
check the excitement. Long after the bandits were in 
their cells, they still clustered in sullen, excited or 
curious masses. 

All through those last hours, there sat in the up- 
stairs office three bandits, self-confessed murderers of 
twelve men; still defiant, still cool, and gazing fear- 
lessly at the crowd surrounding them. Niedermeier 
and Van Dine were manacled together. At each move- 


Chicago Excited. 


175 


iHent of those bound hands, the clink of chains told 
that story of two boys whose hands had once been 
bound together in childish games; hands which later 
had met in oath sworn ties; hands which side by side 
had dealt violent death, but which were now clasped 
by Justice in bonds of steel. 

As the long recital of crime was drawn from them by 
degrees, the daylight waned outside, the glow of an 
electric light across the street cast shadows into the 
office, and they began to realize that at last their career 
of crime was at an end. Chicago, the great city which 
had sheltered them; Chicago, ffie place filled with so 
many reminiscences of bygone pleasures; Chicago, the 
scene of their later deeds of crime, had thrust out its 
arm of Justice even to the Indiana sand-dunes and 
brought them back. Brought them back, not as a 
mother brings back an erring child, but with manacles 
of steel to hold them until released by the throes of 
death. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


SURPRISED AT DAWN — THE BATTLE — KILLING OF 
DRISCOLL — POLICE ROUTED. 

The story of the events preceding the arrival of the 
officers at the diigout is one of simplicity and accident. 
A country school teacher who was in the habit of daily 
reading the Chicago newspapers, had seen the pictures 
of the bandits, and it so happened he had arrived at the 
cross-roads grocery at the same time Niedermeier pur- 
chased the frugal supplies with which the dugout was 
stocked. Niedermeier had attracted further attention 
to himself by his anxiety to see the latest Chicago 
papers. 

Recognizing the young man, the schoolmaster hast- 
ened to inform the Chicago police, by telephone, of his 
belief that the much wanted desperadoes were en- 
camped in the vicinity of his schoolhouse. 

Already the police held clews which drew their at- 
tention to this portion 'of Indiana, and the new lead 
was eagerly followed. The matter was kept secret in 

( 176 ) 


Surprised at Dawn. 


177 


the office of Chief O’Neill, and none but those closest 
to him were aware that late Thursday night six trusted 
men quietly slipped out of Chicago and made their 
way to Pine. 

There they were met by their informant. It was a 
moonlight night. A thin coating of snow covered the 
bare mounds which formed the only landscape that 
could be boasted of in that somewhat desolate region. 
The position of the dugout, in which the outlaws were 
supposed to be intrenched, was carefully indicated to 
the officers by the pedagogue, on a piece of brown 
wrapping paper. A map was drawn, and with this as 
their guide the detectives strode up the track. They 
came to the dugout which they supposed to be the 
rendezvous. No light shone from its cavernous mouth, 
and with an exclamation of disgust, the place was 
found to be empty. It seemed for a minute that the 
trail was a faulty one. 

“Hold on,” said one of the sleuths; “there are tracks 
here, which lead me to believe this place has been 
occupied and abandoned.” 

A careful examination showed this to be the case, 
and that the men who had made the tracks had been 
three in number. Again taking the railway as a guide, 
the detectives narrowly scanned all tracks leading from 


118 


Surprised at Dawi^. 


it. In a few minutes a fresh and well beatert trail w^S 
discovered, and the officers settled down to a long 
chase, lighted only by the moon, which at intervals 
was obscured by flying clouds. 

After some time spent in this tedious task, they lo- 
cated a dugout which showed signs of occupancy. 
Through a chimney crept a thin wisp of smoke, and 
silently the officers stole forward. In a few minutes 
they w'ere satisfied that the hovel, even then, was the 
reposing place for a party of men. 

Withdrawing to a point behind a hummock, they 
held a whispered conversation. Owing to the des- 
perate character of the outlaws, it was decided that but 
one method could safely insure their capture, and that 
was an attack in daylight, when there could be no 
escape for the fugitives. Again the uncertainty of 
whether the dugout was really occupied by the bandits 
wanted, bade them pause. To attack and fire upon an 
innocent party would be worse than taking the chances 
of an early escape by the bandits themselves. It was 
therefore decided to return to Pine, notify Chief 
O'Neill of their discovery and with early dawn march 
upon the scene. 

Shortly before seven o'clock, on a November wintry 
morning, the detectives left Pine and started for the 


Surprised at Dawn. 


179 


dugout by way of the railway tracks. Two miles from 
Pine they met a section crew with a hand car. The 
railroad men readily agreed to “pump’’ them to the 
point they wished to reach, and in a few minutes they 
were at their destination. 

Policeman Driscoll, the boldest and most impetuous 
member of the posse and a celebrated marksman, un- 
slung his rifle and bounded down the embankment to 
the roof of the dugout. Smoke was still coming from 
the chimney. 

Thinking to smoke out the occupants, or at least 
torment them into showing themselves, Driscoll 
kicked in the stove pipe, at the same time shouting, in 
stentorian tones, “Hello, in there!” 

There was no answer. 

“Come out and surrender. We’ve got you and you 
know it. You are dead men if you put up a fight.” 

“Bang! Bang!” This was the only reply from the 
dugout. 

Detective Driscoll, fearless, brave almost unto fool- 
hardiness, stood his ground above the dugout and 
fired his pistol through the chimney hole. 

Two more shots, which whizzed uncomfortably 
close to his ears, sent the intrepid policeman scurrying 
after his more cautious comrades, who, by this time-, 


180 


Surprised at Dawn. 


had sought places of safety behind such trees as the 
sand-dunes afforded. 

For ten minutes there was no sound. The policemen 
were scattered in a semi-circle, each so far separated 
from the other, that communication without shouting 
was impossible; so that no plan of battle could be 
arranged without its details becoming known to the 
hunted men within the dugout. Nervously, behind his 
tree, each man prepared his heavy calibre repeating 
rifle for action and waited. 

The detectives seemed to think that the bandits 
would soon show themselves. They calculated that as 
soon as the door of the -hut was thrown open, they 
would fire and kill the first man to appear. As in 
many other instances, however, the bandits showed 
themselves masters of strategy when in tight places 

They knew that the time they were consuming in 
donning their clothes, examining their weapons, and 
finishing their last link of sausage, would be supposed 
by their pursuers to be occupied in the discussion of 
plans for surrender to a superior foe, and one whose 
overwhelming strength could not be questioned. 

Finally the officers whose stations of safety were 
farthest removed from the entrance of the dugout and 
practically out of range, began to empty their repeat*’ 


Surprised at t)AwN. 


181 


ers at the hut, but not one showed himself. All re- 
mained under cover. 

The sausage finished, Van Dine stood up. 

'‘Well,” he whispered, “those guys out there seem 
to be looking for game. I guess we will have to give 
it to them.” 

He picked up his two magazine guns and stood to 
the right of the door. 

“You throw it open, Emil, and Ell hop out and take 
a crack at one or two of them. If my guns give out, 
hand me yours and then load mine again. No six cop- 
pers will ever clean me up.” 

The obedient Roeske jerked the door open. Van 
Dine sprang out. In an instant there was a volley 
from the rifles of the waiting officers. Sneering and 
disdainful, he stood there, his sturdy form outlined 
clearly against the snow-clad hill behind him. 

Another volley, and Van Dine was still inactive. 

“For God’s sake, shoot. Do something,” came 
from within the cabin. 

“I can’t see anything to shoot at,” replied Van Dine. 

“Well, come back in. They’re shooting at us and 
they are big bullets.” 

“I’ll stand here until one of those ninety-dollar-a- 


182 


Surprised at Dawk, 


month coppers shows his face, and then Til come back 
— or you can come out and get whaf s left of me.” 

Another resounding crash of musketry from the tim- 
ber and Van Dine leaped in the air and fell flat on his 
face. In an instant, completely duped by the trick of 
•the bandit leader, the police, thinking that he was 
wounded, began more deliberately to set themselves 
for straight shooting. 

Detective Sergeant Mathew Zimmer, who held the 
position at the extreme left of the crescent formation, 
raised his rifle to shoot. In the infinitesimal fraction of 
a moment required to apply the necessary pressure to 
the trigger, came the sharp crack of a magazine gun. 

Van Dine had fired. Almost in the same instant, 
and before the echoes from the reverberations of the 
first shot had sounded, a second report rang out. Each 
had found its mark. 

The first, fired with marvelous accuracy, had pierced 
Zimmer’s ear and cut a scalp wound on his head. The 
second tore through his elbow at the joint. 

“Come on, boys, we’ll get them!” shouted Driscoll, 
who intrepidly rushed from behind his barricade and 
plunged toward Van Dine. He cocked his rifle as he 
ran and prepared to draw it to his shoulder. 

“Crack! Bang!” Again the magazine gun ran out 



Fall of the brave Driscoll. 











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Surprised at Dawn. 


185 


with its unmistakable detonation, and Driscoll fell, 
mortally wounded. 

‘‘My God! They’ve got me!” moaned Driscoll, as 
he sank into the snow, a spot of crimson appearing 
under his right arm. 

By this time there were three men in front of the 
dugout. Each held a magazine pistol in either hand, 
two of which were yet smoking. 

“Do you want any more? Show yourselves!” cried 
one of the men. •• 

“We’ve hit everything we can see,” said Van Dine. 
Then mounting the railroad right-of-way he started up 
the track. 

Close behind him bounded Roeske, Niedermcier fol- 
lowing. 

While the bandits were thus escaping, all was con- 
fusion in the ranks of the police. When it was seen 
that the enemy had decamped, the detectives turned 
their attention toward their wounded comrades. Dris- 
coll, who was found to be shot through the abdomen, 
was tenderly carried up to the railroad track. As De- 
tective Hughes on the embankment carefully sup- 
ported his head, Van Dine turned and watched the 
proceedings from a distance of three hundred yards. 
He paused and took deliberate aim at the group. A 


186 


Surprised at Dawn. 


second shot rang out. For the first time in his life 
the bandit leader missed a human mark. 

With their wounded and dying, the police then bent 
themselves to the sole task of seeking a method of 
transportation to the city. 

The mortally injured Driscoll was, under the circum- 
stances, made as comfortable as possible. The only 
hope of saving his life, it then seemed, was to get him 
as soon as possible to a hospital in Chicago. 

While the men were working over the prostrate 
form of the brave officer, tearing their shirts into 
bandages, with which to staunch the flow of blood, 
the thundering of a train warned them that help was 
near at hand. 

In vain they attempted to flag it. The engineer, not 
realizing the urgency of the situation, refused to either 
stop or slacken speed. 

They then carried Driscoll to Miller’s station, waited 
for a train to South Chicago and sent him with a com- 
rade to the city. Then, with a desperate and over- 
powering desire for revenge, they again took up the 
trail of the fleeing bandits. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE BATTLE AT THE DUG-OUT. 

The bandits, after shooting at Officer Hughes, who 
was supporting the prostrate Driscoll, turned into the 
brush at the side of the track, and assuming a steady 
dog trot, made them way toward Tolleston. Wild 
rumors of the battle at the dugout had already spread, 
even through that sparsely settled country. 

Scores of men, armed in some cases with obsolete 
and almost useless weapons, were hastening to the 
scene. 

“Where are you fellows going?’^ said Van Dine, 
hailing one of these parties. 

“Going up to help capture those car-barners,^^ was 
the answer. And then, “Who are you?’^ 

“We are officers,’’ was the ready reply, “and are 
going over here to get more men. You had better 
hurry up and get over there, as there are only a few of 
us and we are afraid they will get away.” 

The farmers hastened on, while Van Dine and his 
pals continued on their way. 

( 187 ) 


188 The Battle at the Dug-out. 

“What is that over there suddenly asked Nieder- 
meier, pointing to a place from which a column of 
smoke arose as though from a sand-dune. 

“That’s just the place we want to go to,” was the 
terse response of the bandit leader. “It is the Garden 
City Sand Company’s sand-pit.” 

And thither the men hastened. 

On the sidetrack, leading to the sand-pit, stood a 
locomotive and a string of gravel cars of the Pennsyl- 
vania Railway. 

“Get someone to throw that switch,” yelled Van 
Dine to Niedermeier as he sprang forward toward the 
locomotive, whose injector, slowly working, told the 
story of rising steam. 

Beside the iron horse stood Fireman Coffey, idly 
toying with an oil can. 

“Jump in there just as fast as you know how,” or- 
dered Van Dine, indicating the cab with his pistol. 

Startled and surprised as he was, one glance into 
those gleaming eyes gave warning to the fireman that 
this was no time for hesitation. 

“Hurry up with that switch!” yelled Van Dine to 
Niedermeier, who was vainly trying to throw the lever. 

Brakeman Sovea, young, fearless and quick to act, 
fully realizing that something was wrong, rushed to 


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The Battle at the Dug-out. 191 

the struggling Niedermeier and tried to seize him. 
The switch had, however, been thrown. The sound of 
escaping steam told the story that the ponderous en- 
gine was under way. 

To and fro the men, evenly matched in physical 
strength, fought by the side of the switch target, as 
the locomotive, steadily gaining speed, approached 
them. 

One quick lunge and Niedermeier tore himself from 
his assailant’s grasp, wresting his weapon from Sovea’s 
desperate clutch as the engine passed them. 

Athlete that he was, he found no difficulty in swing- 
ing himself up into the cab, but if he believed that he 
had thus easily eluded his wiry pursuer, he was mis- 
taken. 

Half overthrown by the force of that last wrench, 
Sovea with bull-dog tenacity, only held in his mind the 
idea of continuing his fight to protect the company’s 
property. 

With ever increasing momentum, the locomotive 
with wide open throttle sped past him. A spring, a 
quick seizing of the hand-rails by trained hands, and 
Sovea was on the gangway of the cab. 

A blinding flash, the quick, crisp bark of a magazine 
gun, and the faithful brakeman, with a wild upthrowing 


192 


The Battle at the Dug-out. 


of. his clenched hands, pitched backward, a lifeless 
heap, while the long gravel train thundered past. 

‘T fixed him quick,” remarked the heartless Niedet- 
meier, still holding his smoking weapon in his hand. 
“When anyone tries to take my gun away from me he 
will find Fm a bad man.” 

With leaps and bounds the engine rushed forward, 
while within the cab, the fireman sat in his unaccus- 
tomed seat, watched unceasingly by Van Dine, who 
continually menaced him with his gun. Roeske, 
crouched upon the fireman’s seat, seemed dazed, 
hunted and overawed. 

Niedermeier, a vicious leer upon his face, looked 
toward Van Dine. 

“Where are you going?” he said. 

“To Liverpool,” replied Van Dine, and then glanc- 
ing toward the rear, “unless those gravel-pit boys 
catch us.” 

Niedermeier, swinging himself from the cab, looked 
back toward the pits. As he did so a flash of fire from 
a shot-gun in the hands of a laborer, belched forth a 
charge of bird shot which scattered over the tender, 
some of them finding lodgement in Roeske’s face. 

With a snarl of rage Niedermeier fired at the man 
who had discharged the gun. A lucky movement on 


^\\\\\^ 



Sovea, the brave brakeman, whose attempt to disarm Niedermeier 

(iost him his life. 



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The Battle at the Dug-out. 


195 


the part of the laborer, doubtless, saved his life. Be- 
fore a second interchange of shots could take place, 
the engine had careened behind a sand-dune, separat- 
ing the marksmen. Three hundred wildly infuriated 
laborers rushed up the track as though fatuously be- 
lieving in the sudden excitement of the tragedy, that 
they could overtake the flying train. 

For a few minutes no word was spoken within the 
cab. Hissing, rocking and swaying as though without 
balance, the engine swept with unaccustomed speed 
over the roughly laid track. 

It suddenly emerged from the dreary dunes into a 
long, level stretch. Directly before it and standing 
skeleton-like, with warning finger thrown out, stood a 
towering semaph'-re. Its direction indicated that thus 
far and no further could they go. The fireman, disre- 
garding the outlaws in that more menacing danger 
which now confronted him, frantically jerked the 
throttle shut and opened his air valve. 

The huge machine, like a horse violently curbed in 
full speed, quivered as though remonstrating at an un- 
expected check. 

*T can go no further,” said the fireman, ‘‘or the 
engine will be ditched.” 

The bandits, lustily cursing, jumped from the cab. 


196 


The Battle at the Dug-out. 


Roeske, who was the swiftest runner of the trio, 
sprinted away in advance, as though with a deliberate 
plan of leaving his comrades. Van Dine and Nieder- 
meier, running abreast, saw that he was rapidly leaving 
them. 

A quick glance was interchanged and in Nieder- 
meier’s eyes came that cruel gleam of hate that had 
so often presaged death. He slackened his pace and 
his ready hand reached backward to his weapon. 

“Let him alone, Pete,” enjoined Van Dine, slack- 
ening to keep step with his companion. “This is not 
the time. A shot now would bring a hundred men on 
us before we could reach that cornfield.” 

“I’ll kill him anyway,” was Niedermeier’s reply. 

“Pete, you’ll do what I say,” said Van Dine, grasp- 
ing Niedermeier’s arm and staying the half-raised 
weapon. The men stopped their flight and Nieder- 
meier looked into those gray, unflinching eyes. That 
which he saw there cowed him as a powerful blow 
would have done. 

Reluctantly and with marked antagonism, he re- 
placed the gun in his pocket. Off toward the denuded 
fields, whose staring shocks of yellow corn offered but 
slight shelter, sped the two bandits, while far to the 
with pnslackened speed, ran Roeske, 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


CORN SHOCKS ARE POOR FORTS — SURROUNDED BY 
FARMERS — THE SURRENDER. 

It was a source of humiliation and chagrin to the 
Chicago police that a crowd of Hoosier farmers and 
hunters brought the bandits to bay and forced them 
to surrender. As they entered the corn field, the des- 
peradoes, with that craftiness which characterized their 
every movement, immediately sought the cover of the 
tall corn-shocks. 

Behind these, completely concealed, they were in a 
position to shoot with a free arm without betraying 
their exact position. Sixteen men were in the posse 
which surrounded the field, in which the outlaws made 
their last stand. They were led by Charles Hamilton, 
Fred Miller and John Dillon. Their arms were not 
of the deadly kind carried by the police. For the most 
part the guns in the posse consisted of squirrel and 
bird pieces, and with shot, not bullets, they were 
charged 


( 197 ) 


198 


Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 


To this circumstance, Neidermeier and Van Dine 
owed their lives. Eager to gather in the thousands 
of dollars reward which had been offered for the cap- 
ture of the desperadoes, dead or alive, the head-hunters 
closed in on the corn field with cocked triggers, deter- 
mined to bag their quarry before they could be inter- 
fered with by the Chicago officers. In fact the feeling 
was so strong in that section of Indiana, that the gov- 
ernor was appealed to to call out the militia and pre- 
vent the Chicago authorities from further prosecuting 
their quest for the bandits. Threats were made that 
the Chicago police would be arrested, if they attempted 
to take the fugitives out of Indiana. Plainly the desire 
to get the immense rewards was the incentive of the 
objectors. 

While this state of affairs did not for an instant deter 
Assistant Chief of Police Schuettler and his men, none 
of them happened to be present when the final scene 
was enacted. 

They were hot on the trail, however, the Illinois 
Central, Baltimore 8i Ohio, and Fort Wayne railroads 
having furnished special trains to carry the rifle squads 
whither they would go. 

Now occurred the incidents which showed to the 
world that the notorious car barn bandits, the boast- 


V 



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201 


ful desperadoes who had terrified a city of millions, 
were not desperadoes at all, but merely a set of cheap, 
cowardly young assassins. 

Always ready, wantonly, to shoot down in cold blood, 
any helpless, unarmed person who came in their way, 
even when nothing possibly could be gained by the 
murder, they found themselves at last in a position 
where their unerring marksmanship might be served to 
extricate them, but something more is required of a 
real desperado than marksmanship and the ability, after 
shooting people in the back, to run fast, and that is 
nerve. 

Any coward can kill without endangering his own 
life, but it takes a desperate man to face death un- 
flinchingly when he knows that there are equally brave 
men before him who are willing to stake their lives 
against his. 

As they huddled behind their respective com shocks, 
Van Dine and Niedermeier shook with fright. All 
of their desperation, all of the recklessness which they 
had made themselves believe was valor, oozed out at 
the tips of the shaking fingers which clutched the butts 
of their prized weapons of death. 

Did these “desperadoes” shoot? 

No. They crouched in terror and waited for a chance 


202 Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 

to surrender. Where were all their brave resolutions, 
their pledges to stand by each other to the death? 

Now they thought of home and mother! Well had 
it been for them had the thought come earlier and more 
frequent. Now these degenerate rascals harked back 
to the time when they reveled in mischief instead of 
following the paths of respectable boys. 

Their game was up. Were they ready to die “with 
their boots on?” No! They were but small imitations 
of the men who die like that. 

Mercy! 

Could mockery be more clearly typified than in this 
cry behind those corn shocks. 

Where did they learn the term? What was mercy? 
Could those eight spirits so lately sent to eternity but 
testify, what would they say of the interpretation of 
that word ?” 

A dog in their position would have fought back. A 
lizard would have risked his poor miserable life in 
flight. A game cock would have crowed defiantly and 
fought to the last gurgling gasp. A snake would have 
coiled for its final spring. 

A MAN would have died in his tracks and at least 
had placed over his accursed grave: “He was game.” 
But what a sight have we of these two craven cowards 


Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 


208 


trembling behind their corn shocks, too frightened 
even to fire on a scattered band of farmers armed with 
bird guns. 

“Bang! Bang!” came from the edge of the field. 

The leaves of the corn-shocks in front of them 
rustled sharply and both outlaws felt stinging sensa- 
tions on their foreheads. Feeling of their wounds, 
they discovered them to have been made by the small- 
est kind of bird shot. They now knew they had little 
to fear from the weapons of the villagers ^who sought 
to capture them, as their deadly automatic pistols were 
capable of carrying their steel-tipped messengers of 
death a mile, and they were each able to hit anything 
they choose, as far as they could see it. But when the 
tall figure of Charles Hamilton, the Hoosier black- 
smith, arose before them and sternly commanded them 
to “Throw up your hands, you devils, or Fll blow your 
measiy heads off,” what did they do with their six 
pistols? 

Why, they almost forgot that they owned pistols, or 
ever had used one in their lives. They elevated their 
hands with much more alacrity than did many of the 
persons they later boasted of having murdered, be- 
cause they did not obey quickly enough to suit them. 

Into the snow went their guns. 


204 Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts 

''Come out here now,” roared the big blacksmith, 
as he raised his shotgun and leveled it in their direc- 
tion. 

It was indeed a sorry looking pair that emerged. It 
was about as undignified a surrender as ever has been 
recorded. Niedermeier the terrible, came out crawling 
on his hands and knees. Van Dine was crouched, but 
he was not on his hands and knees, because he was 
extremely anxious to keep his hands in the air. 

"Please don’t kill us,” he whimpered. "We’re the 
car-barn bandits and there’s $i,ooo reward out for each 
of us. If you shoot us you won’t get the reward. I 
want to see my mother. We surrender.” 

As Niedermeier arose to his feet he said to Ham- 
ilton: 

"Come to one side, I want to speak to you. Take 
one of those guns and kill me with it, please. I know 
what we have coming to ,us. We might better die on 
the spot.” 

"If you make any break to get away, I’ll blow your 
head off, all right enough,” responded the young black- 
smith. 

Their pistols safely out of their hands, the outlaws 
were not roughly handled, the countrymen feeling 
abundantly able to take care of a dozen such "despera- 



The famous surrender in the Indiana corn field. 









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207 


does” as they. After assuring himself that their captors 
included no policeman from Chicago, and that they 
were in no danger of lynching. Van Dine began to 
boast. 

‘‘You have the honor of capturing two of the most 
desperate men in the world,” he declared, forgetting 
for the moment the ignominious surrender he had 
made. Remembering it later he said: 

“If you had been Chicago policemen we would have 
killed every one of }OU before we would have given 
up.” 

These remarks only amused the farmers and hunters. 
Hamilton, the leader, was in the latter class. The 
proceeding was ar mere incident to him. Down in 
Indiana they have men who would just as soon ’hunt 
outlaws as jack-rabbits. 

When the thought of returning to Chicago occurred 
to the pair they quailed. They begged to be taken to 
Crown Point, Ind., and placed in jail there, rather than 
venture back into Chicago, even under heavy police 
guard. 

Quickly the prisoners were bound and in wagons 
they were hurried to the near-by station of Lake. 
Thence they were transferred to Tolleston, where the 
excited police took charge of them and escorted them 


208 


Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 


to Chicago. On the homeward trip they talked freely 
and boastfully of their many crimes, cursing Marx 
freely for his confession. 

The posse then took up the hunt for Roeske, who 
had gone west from Tolleston, when he separated from 
his companions. They were too late, however, as 
Roeske had, through accident, already come to the 
end of his tether. 

With animal cunning, the fugitive had taken what 
was really the best course to evade capture. 

It was with not only relief, but elation as well, that 
he left his former comrades. In Roeske there was 
none of the bravado which stood in place of bravery. 
None realized better than he, that to remain with Van 
Dine and Niedermeier meant a double danger of death; 
because he had not only the fear of the officers weigh- 
ing heavily upon him, but an almost certain knowledge 
that on the first favorable opportunity, either Nieder- 
meier or Van Dine would kill him. 

Roeske s plan, therefore, was to part with his former 
companions forever. As he fled with labored breath 
across the whitened, hummocky waste, he kept con- 
stant watch to the fore, or cast furtive glances behind. 
Dropping into a little hollow, where he was secure 
from observation, he made a partially successful at- 


Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 


209 


tempt, freely using his handkerchief as a towel and 
snow as a bath, to eradicate the traces of battle. 

With the bloodstains obliterated from his face, he 
felt that but one thing more was necessary to make 
him appear as other men. That was a coat. Through- 
out the day he had fled, fought or rested, in his shirt- 
sleeves. 

Finding that all pursuit had apparently ceased, he 
made bold on nearing the Aetna station of the Wabash, 
railroad, four miles northeast of Liverpool, to enter 
a store and attempt the purchase of an outer garment 
In this he failed. The proprietor, however, had no 
coat to sell. Even with this rebuff, his brazen cunning 
did not desert him. For once, he exhibited a certain 
amount of nerve. In a business-like way he walked 
into the station and purchased a ticket for Chicago. 

Full fifty men, including officers in uniform, laborers 
in overalls, or farmers in shirt-sleeves, were clustered 
in and about the station, earnestly, eagerly, or excitedly 
discussing the day’s events. Roeske mingled with 
them freely and finally sat down to await his train. 
Had he been but a few minutes sooner, he would, with- 
out detection, have been able to leave on a city-bound 
express, when he could have easily lost himself in the 
dark recesses of Chicago. 


210 


Corn Shocks Are Poor Forts. 


As he sat on the bench tired nature succumbed and 
Roeske slept. 

Suddenly he was roughly aroused. A heavy hand 
clutched both arms and he was powerless to arise. 

“What do you want?” he asked with a show of be- 
wilderment. 

“Who are you?” 

“My name’s Everett. I’m going to Chicago to hunt 
for a job.” 

“Stand up,” commanded a gruff voice. 

With alacrity Roeske, quite like a dog, complied, 
but in no manner did he betray the slightest emotion 
or nervousness. Two big hands went into his bulging 
hip pockets and drew forth two automatic pistols. 

“He’s our man,” exultantly cried two or three men 
at once. 

“I guess I am. The jig is up,” quietly replied the 
exhausted bandit. 

Two hours later he joined Van Dine and Nieder- 
meier at the city hall in Chicago. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


CONFESSIONS OF VAN DINE AND NIEDERMEIER-BOAST- 
ING IN CAPTIVITY — UNPRECEDENTED SCENE IN 
OFFICE OF CHIEF o'nEILL. 

Handcuffed together, Van Dine and Niedermeier 
faced Chief O’Neill, Assistant Chief Schuettler, Mayor 
Harrison and one hundred newspaper men, in the 
Chief’s office in the city hall. Fresh from the battle in 
the corn field, their clothing was dirty, their faces 
streaked with blood and with shot holes in their heads, 
faces and clothing. Van Dine grinned. Niedermeier 
bore his ever-present smile — a sardonic leer. 

“Marx told the truth,” began Van Dine. 

“Yes, that’s enough.” laughed Niedermeier as he 
shifted to the other foot. “If you want to tell about 
the car-barn thing go ahead,” he added breezily. 

“Well, chief, it was this way,” said Van Dine, as he 
shrugged his shoulders. And then, with the air of a 
man who was about to tell the story of a football game 
oi a golf match, the bandit leader told a story which 
( 211 ) 


212 Van Dine and Niedermeter Confess. 

astounded his hearers. They felt that they were listen- 
ing to a tale such as had never been heard by human 
ears before. 

"‘We, Marx, Niedermeier, and myself, hung around 
the car barns at 79th street for several days before we 
robbed the Sixty-first street barn. We intended to do 
both jobs the same night. We did not do the 79th 
street job, because the last car and the men in charge 
of the cash left at the same time. The following night 
we hung around the barn until midnight. Then Marx 
scouted about the office. He was the tallest of the 
trio and stood upon his toes as he watched the cashier 
counting the money. It looked good to him. and we 
thought our time had come. 

‘‘We all stepped into the barn. I carried a sledge 
in my hand that I had stolen when I worked for the 
Northwestern. I went into the outer office, off the 
barn. Niedermeier stopped at the window with the 
screen. Marx stood at a window in the outer office 
where transfers are passed out. 

“I heard Marx sing out: ‘Hold up your hands.’ 
Niedermeier also told the men inside to hold up their 
hands. I was at the cashier’s window with a sledge 
in my hand and a latest pattern Colt’s gun in my 
pocket. 




Van Dine and Niedermeier Confess. 213 

‘‘When Marx and Niedermeier shouted, Edmond 
grabbed a Smith & Wesson revolver, nickel-plated. 
Stewart also grabbed at a guti. I don’t know whether 
he used it or not. 

“The noise we made awakened Motorman Johnson 
and Marx turned upon him without warning and shot 
him instantly. I am sure that it was Marx who killed 
Johnson. Then Niedermeier shot through the outer 
window, and at the same moment I swung the sledge 
and broke the office door down with a single blow. 
Then somebody ran past the door. I guess you called 
him Biehl. 

“Meanwhile, Niedermeier pumped his gun through 
the window and when I entered the inside office 
through the open door, Edmond was on his knees and 
Stewart was breathing heavily. I knew he was gone, 
so I turned my attention to Edmond. I disarmed him 
of the gun he had and gave it to Marx. Later he 
pawned it.” 

At this point in the boastful narrative of Van Dine, 
Niedermeier broke in with : 

“Don’t talk so much about yourself. I hit two of 
those guys myself.” 

Van Dine resumed: “Then I seized all the green 
money I could see. I also picked a couple of trays of 


2 l 4 Van Dine and Niedermeier Confess. 

silver. I had to leave one, because it would have made 
too big a load to carry. When we came out, we saw 
a policeman in full uniform and shot at him.’^ 

'‘You’re mistaken, my boy,” remarked Chief O’Neill, 
"that was a motorman’s coat you saw.” 

"Well, we thought it was a policeman. Pete fired 
four shots at him. I gathered all I could carry of the 
money. Then we went through the wash-room and 
through a window into the back yard of a house in the 
rear of the car-barn. Following the paths, we reached 
Sixty-first street and walked over to the park. We 
sat down in the grass until daylight. The rest of our 
movements were exactly as stated by Marx.” 

"What were your movements after you heard of 
Marx’s confession?” questioned Chief O’Neill. 

"I was asleep in my home with Niedermeier,” said 
Van Dine, "when Roeske came to our home on Spring- 
field avenue and woke us up. He said that Marx had 
made a confession. We already knew that he had been 
arrested for killing Quinn and we made up our minds 
to rescue him at any cost. 

"We planted ten sticks of dynamite in the garbage 
box, in the rear of 1819 Robey street. A man by the 
name of Jacoby lives there. With that, we intended 
to blow up the station and release Marx. We also 


Van Dine and Niedermeier Confess. 215 

laid around the home of Blaul for two nights. If we 
had seen him we would have killed him on the spot. 

“But I am off the track. When we got up, we took 
a car to the heart of the city. We made no attempt to 
conceal ourselves and walked leisurely through the 
down town district. Then we took an elevated train 
and rode to Stony Island avenue. Then we took a 
South Chicago car and went to the end of the line. I 
knew where there was a dugout, used by hunters, and 
I found it. It was not suited to our purpose and we 
moved to another dugout a mile or so away. That’s 
where we had our first fight with the police.” 

As he finished his horrible tale. Van Dine yawned 
and stretched. Turning to Niedermeier in a matter- 
of-fact way, he said: 

“Well, Pete, I guess we’d better be going along 
home.” 

Even the intense gravity of the scene could not keep 
the onlookers from smiling. 

“Not yet,” declared Assistant Chief Schuettler. “We 
have a lot to say to you yet.” 

The Assistant Chief then went on to enumerate all 
of the crimes committed by the bandits and to each 
of them Van Dine and Niedermeier glibly confessed, 
Then Van Pine continued: 


216 Van Dine and Niedermeier Confess. 


‘‘We did not want to leave Chicago. In fact we were 
planning to return tonight and release Marx. We had 
looked over all the car-barns in the city and would 
probably have robbed one of them tonight if we had 
not surrendered. 

“We were also going to lay for Blaul and it is lucky 
for him that we came in shackled. We would have 
got him sure. I had a lot of clothes at home I wanted 
to get, and I wanted to see my mother again before 
my trial. I expect it* will come up before long and I 
am willing to take what’s coming to me.” 

Preparations were then made for photographing the 
prisoners, but Van Dine balked. 

“I want to wash up before they take any snap shots 
of me,” he said gruffly. “We want to look pretty in 
the papers, don’t we Pete.” 

“You bet. I’d like to get a shave, too,” replied 
Niedermeier. 

When, for the time being, they were refused these 
privileges, they became exceedingly angry and leered 
viciously at their captors. 

“With impassive countenance. Mayor Harrison lis- 
tened to the entire confession. 

“Well, I declare,” he said as he drew a deep sigh, 
when the men had completed their stories. “One of 


Van Dine and Niedermeier Confess. 217 


those men looked at me with an eye that seemed to 
say ‘I would shoot you on sight/ 

“Considering the terrible rascality of these men, I 
must say that it is one of the biggest captures made 
in the history of the police department. I congratulate 
every man who had any part in it” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


OTHER MURDERS BY NIEDERMEIER — BOASTS OF DEEDS IN 
WEST — :ROBBING STAGE COACHES AND TRAINS. 

When the police, by the accident which resulted in 
the murder of Detective Quinn, discovered the iden- 
tity of the car-barn assassins and unraveled many other 
mysteries which had been furnished Chicago for 
months past, they little thought that the operations of 
the gang, or at least a portion of it, had extended into 
many states of the Union. 

The country at large was no more astounded than 
they, when the information came from the lips of Peter 
Niederm^ier that he had taken part in some of the 
boldest robberies and hold-ups of recent years in the 
west. 

During his recital, however, Niedermeier proved 
loyal to his pals and positively refused to name those 
who attended him on the occasions he recounted. 
Others of the bandits had acknowledged having taken 
trips east and west but had confessed to no crimes on 

{m 


Other Murders by Niedermeier. 219 

these excursions, so the authorities were inclined to 
the belief that the deeds mentioned by Niedermeier 
were the work of the clique to which he belonged. 

This startling confession of Niedermeier also goes 
to strengthen the belief that there were others in the 
gang of young desperadoes, than those upon whom 
the law has set its clutch. 

It was evidently with a desire to “steal some of the 
thunder” of Van Dine, whom the newspapers had char- 
acterized as the leader and moving spirit of the “Maga- 
zine Trio” that Niedermeier laid bare his story of blood 
thirsty adventures in other parts, and no less an inclina- 
tion to shine more himself than to shield his friends, 
that he left their names out of his talc. 

After telling of slaying a brakeman when he was 
fourteen years old, before the organization of the 
“Magazine Trio,” he told of holding up a Baltimore 
8 c Ohio passenger train near Edgemoor, Ind., on the 
night of August i, 1901, when he and several partners 
flagged the train and forced the express messengers 
to open the strong box at the point of revolvers. No 
murders were committed on this occasion. 

Perhaps the most spectacular hold-up in which 
Niedermeier. participated and the one which savored 


220 Other Murders by Niedermeier. 

most of the wild west was the robbery of a gambling 
house in Nevada. 

‘We made a good job of that all right/’ declared 
Niedermeier later, to a newspaper man, in the presence 
of police officials. “One fellow didn’t have sense 
enough to hold up his hands and he got all that was 
coming his way. Dead? Well, quite. 

“They usually know a hold-up out west when they 
see one, and when you get the drop they have intelli- 
gence enough to sling up their hands like good little 
boys. 

“There was $6000 in sight and we didn’t care if we 
did shoot a few, or the whole mob for that matter. 
There were quite a few people in the place and the 
stakes were running high. We calculated well and 
arrived just as things were getting good and inter- 
esting. 

“Only one fellow made a fight and that was the 
keeper. 

“Now what do you think of a man that’s sitting 
down, wedged in at a faro table, dealing cards out of 
a little box, who hasn’t any more sense than to jump 
when there’s a gun sticking into his face. 

“1 never did find out what his name was, but he 
was a fool. The rest all lined up against the wall and 


Other Murders by Niedermeier. 221 

let us go through them. Say it was like taking candy 
fiom children, but this faro dealer — he had to jump up 
and reach for his gun. 

“Well, he didn’t get very far. One of the boys 
settled him in short order. We had a wagon waiting, 
and hopped into it with the $6000 and made for a train. 
They never got a smell of us after that.” 

What Niedermeier considers one of the hugh jokes 
of his bloody career, is the fact, that a man who was 
mistaken for him in Kentucky committed suicide when 
he saw certain death facing him at the hands of an 
armed posse. 

More than a year previous to this writing an Illinois 
Central mail train was speeding southward near Padu- 
cah, Ky., when it was signalled to stop at a lonely 
stretch of track in the woods. Thinking that some 
track-walker had found something amiss with the rails 
the engineer halted his train. 

The next instant he and the fireman were covered 
with pistols held by two masked men, who clambered 
over the tender. 

“Up with your hands or you’re dead men,” shouted 
one of the bandits with an oath, and the engine crew 
complied. Meantime, the door of the mail-car had 
been beset by tliree otlier robbers. Upon threats of 


222 Other Murders by Niedermeier. 

blowing up the entire train if they failed to obey, the 
mail clerks opened the door and the bandits entered. 

Seizing three heavily filled mail-sacks, the robbers 
jumped to the ground, giving warning to the trainmen 
aiid clerks that if they attempted to follow they would 
be slain in cold blood. 

While this was going on in the mail car, the two 
desperadoes on the tender had forced the engineer and 
fireman to uncouple the engine from the train. They 
were then compelled to climb back into the cab and 
when the other bandits had boarded the engine, the 
pursuasive influence of three or four six-shooters in- 
duced the engineer to open the throttle and send the 
engine speeding down the track. 

Arriving at the point in the woods upon which they 
had calculated to disembark the robbers made the en- 
gineer stop. They alighted and informed the driver 
to keep on going if he valued his life. Apparently the 
engineer did, for he “kept on going.” 

So soon as the news of the hold-up reached Padu- 
cah, the railway officials and local authorities offered 
large rewards for the apprehension of the culprits, and 
a regular, old-fashioned blue-grass man hunt was on 
in short order. 

Even Kentucky posses, however, were not equal to 


Other Murders by NiederMeier. 223 


Niedermeier and his kind in craftiness, as subsequent 
events proved. 

Special Agent Murray, of the railroad company and 
his posse soon ran down a man whom they believed 
from his appearance to be Niedermeier. The fugitive 
was surrounded in a swamp and after having put up 
a hopeless battle for his life, he cut his throat. 

This man's name was Barnes and until Niedermeier 
laughingly related the incident, it was actually believed 
that he was one of the train robbers. 

“Why that fellow Barnes was nearly frightened to 
death at being taken for me,” said Niedermeier. ‘T 
was right around there in a farm house for three days 
and when I got back to Louisville, I had to laugh to 
think that he had croaked himself, after having had 
nothing to do with the job. But I’ll tell you one thing 
— it’s enough to make a man take a shot at himself 
when he sees a couple of hundred head-hunters craw'I- 
ing around in the grass and waiting to make him look 
like an old sponge.” 

Another spectacular hold-up, to which Niedermeier 
confessed, was the robbery of a Wells-Fargo stage 
coach at Butler, Ney., when a large amount of cash was 
secured. Among the train robberies which he men- 
tioned in his narrative, was the hold-up of a North- 


224 Other Murders by Niedermeier. 

western passenger train near Boone, la., in the Spring 
of 1903. 

Of his minor offenses, he boasted of the ease with 
which he had held up the Franklin Park station of the 
Wisconsin Central railroad. 

As an indication of the mental make-up of this young 
brigand, it is peculiarly interesting to note, that in the 
same breath with which he boasted of his inhuman ac- 
complishments he spoke of his mother. 

“I want to know that my mother will be cared for 
after I am hanged,’’ he said. “I can tell you all about 
a lot of crimes tliat you fellows don’t know anything 
about, blit first I want you to guarantee to me that my 
mother will receive the thousands of dollars in rewards 
that are offered for information regarding the perpe- 
trators of them.” 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

DRAMATIC SCENES FOLLOW — MRS. VAN DINE PLEADS 
VAINLY TO SEE HER BOY. 

Dramatic situations followed each other as thickly 
after the capture of the bandits, as they had done 
before the game of adventure and blood which these 
young men had so strenuously played, was ended by 
handcuffs and iron bars. No writer of melodrama 
could have invented more striking scenes than oc- 
curred in the Harrison street police station, the jail, 
and police headquarters in the city hall. 

By a strange coincidence, Mrs. Sophie Van Dine, 
rhother of the bandit leader, had known Assistant Chief 
of Police Schuettler from her schooldays. She was 
a prominent figure in charitable movements on the 
northwest side and often had conferred with that of- 
ficial regarding her favorite projects, which, strange 
to say were the keeping of young boys off the streets 
at night and the rescue of young girls from evil com- 
pany. 


( 225 ) 


i^26 Dramatic Scenes Follow. 

In a burst of hysterical grief, after the capture of 
her boy, Mrs. Van Dine related circumstances of a 
startling nature regarding an offer she said she had 
made to her old friend, Assistant Chief Schuettler, to 
find the hiding place of Harvey and turn him over for 
imprisonment. 

‘'Oh, if Herman Schuettler had only listened to me 
last night, I could have saved my boy from this last 
awful crime,” she sobbed, as she was led away from 
the Harrison street station after an ineffectual attempt 
to see Harvey. 

“I went to see Herman last night,” she wailed, in 
choking, heart-broken tones, “and I told him that I 
could get the boy for him without bloodshed. I told 
him that I expected to hear from him to-day, and that 
I would go directly to him and bring him in. I also 
told him, that if he knew of Harvey’s whereabouts, at 
that minute, and was concealing it from me, to tell me 
and I would go to him and persuade him to give him- 
self up. 

“He said he thought it would be a good plan and 
even then his officers were surrounding my boy.” 

The woman’s bosom seemed about to burst with the 
anguish that surged within. Often her lips parted to 
speak but no sound came from them. Her ey^s were 


Dramatic Scenes Follow. 


227 


dim with tears and she lapsed into a state which seemed 
to the pretty little newspaper-woman who, weeping 
herself, was trying to comfort the stricken mother, to 
be bordering on a trance. 

'‘Why, if they had only told me,'’ she sobbed, "I 
would have gone to that lonely dug-out in the middle 
of the night. I would have trudged over those deso- 
late sand-dunes. I would have crawled on my hands 
and knees through that dreary wilderness, if necessary^ 
I know my dear boy, whom they hunted like a wild 
beast, would have listened to his mother's pleadings 
and returned with me to the city. 

"And think what awful bloodshed would have been 
averted. I was afraid of this. I feared, if Harvey were 
brought to bay he would shoot. Oh, why did I not 
make him give himself up days ago. 

"When he left home, he promised to keep me in- 
formed of his movements. He was to do this by writ- 
ing messages to a friend of mine, who would bring 
them to me. Yesterday I looked for word from my 
boy. I wondered why it did not come. 

"And while I was wondering, they were down there 
forcing him to commit — " 

The devoted mother could not voice the word "mur- 
der” in connection with her son. Her voice died away 


228 


Dramatic Scenes Follow. 


in a little dry, choked sob, more pitiful than passionate. 

“All about the car-barn murderers captured! Van 
Dine and Niedermeier caught!’’ 

The shrill cry of a newsboy smote the ears of Mrs. 
Van Dine, as a grimy hand thrust a paper before her. 
It was as if she had been struck in the face with a 
club. Her form stiffened and her face for a moment 
twitched as though some terrible pain had seized her. 

In a moment, however, she recovered herself and 
walked on. In that flitting incident an observer might 
have detected in the woman, one of those qualities 
which served her son so well in his moments of dan- 
ger. It might have been seen whence sprung the for- 
titude and self-control which were such marked charac- 
teristics of the leader of the desperadoes. 

Determined to see Harvey, if it were within the 
bounds of possibility, the heart-sick woman waited 
upon Chief O’Neill. 

Composing herself, buoyed by the hope that the 
superintendent would be more kindly than his under 
officers, she sat in a chair and waited his coming. By 
her side was her younger son, Frank. 

As the grizzled old veteran, who in his life of service 
had participated in hundreds of pathetic scenes, entered 
the office, he shrank instinctively from the ordeal 


Dramatic Scenes Follow. ^29 

which he knew awaited him. For many sleepless hours 
he had striven to place in the shadow of the gallows, 
the offspring of the woman he now faced. 

Victory was his. He joyed in his triumph. He had 
done his duty by the law and the city whose principal 
protector he was. His work was done. Months of 
brain-racking, stormy experiences had at last come to 
an end and he was vindicated, but here was a new 
trial — an unnecessary trial, it might be said — for the 
kindly heart of this faithful, fearless, firm-jowled man. 
Had he been allowed to speak first, his position would 
perhaps have been less disagreeable, but it was not 
to be. 

The mother of his prisoner, the boy whom he had 
given orders to kill on sight, sprang to her feet and 
rushed at him. She grasped both of his big hands in 
her dainty, trembling, twitching ones. A score of men 
in the room ceased talking and a hush as of death fell 
upon the group. 

“Chief,” cried the woman, raising her eyes appeal- 
ingly to his, “please, oh, please. Chief, won’t you let 
me see my Harvey just a minute — a minute. Chief — 
just a little minute. Surely -it’s not much to ask. He 
needs me. Chief — I am his mother.” 

It was a scene of dramatic sadness. Everybody in 


230 


DRAMAtic Scenes Follow. 


the room knew what the answer would and must be, 
and more than one man furtively passed his coat sleeve 
across his eyes, but O’Neill withstood the trial. He 
looked away from the tense, pale face of the woman 
before him and firmly withdrew his hands from her 
feverish grasp. 

“I cannot do it, Madam,” he said steadily, but it was 
plain his tone was forced. ‘‘Your son is safe. He has 
been attended to. He had some blood on his face, 
but I washed it off myself with a towel. He has had 
his supper and he is all right down stairs.” 

“But Chief — please — he — I’m — ” 

By this time the policeman was fully himself. In a 
cold monotone, his glance resting on vacancy, as if a 
vision were before him of the men who had fallen be- 
fore the pistol of this woman’s son, he spoke: 

“He’s better off than some of those poor devils he 
shot. Your boy’s done a lot of killing to-day, but he’s 
alive, not even badly hurt.” 

Again the woman’s strength served her. Disdaining 
to give way before those whom she felt had wronged 
her boy, she drew herself up with a show of pride 
and led her little son from the room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


'"Pll marry you on the gallows"" — bandit"s sweet- 
heart REMAINS TRUE — OTHER PRISONERS MISS 
SUCH ATTENTIONS. 

“Harvey — my love — my sweetheart — I’ll wed you 
even at the foot of the gallows.” 

Oblivious of a score of onlookers, with tears stream- 
ing down her pretty cheeks, her slender form quivering 
with emotion, Van Dine’s sweetheart made this pas- 
sionate declaration in the cell room of the Harrison 
street police station, the morning following the tragic 
events among the Indiana sand-dunes. 

“You have committed murder, they say, Harvey, but 
I won’t believe it even though you say it yourself,” 
went on the girl, her words welling forth from her full, 
spasmodically heaving bosom in an uncontrollable tor- 
rent. “No! no! — whatever you have done, Harvey, 
you are mine. They can’t take you from me. You will 
be mine even in death. If you must die I’ll marry 
you first, Harvey, I love you — I love you — J love you. 

m 


232 "Tll Marry You on the Gallows/* 


ril be faithful and true. I was to have been your bride 
so soon, but this cannot change it.** 

For the first time since his capture,, the bandit leader 
exhibited signs of emotion. They were brief, how- 
ever, and the sob that surged within him was choked 
back before it escaped. 

“You*re a devoted girl, and I love you,** he an- 
swered. “But they have me now, you see, and there 
isn’t much use in you putting yourself before the public 
in any way that will leave the taint of my deeds upon 
your fair name after — after — ** 

A faint scream burst from the girl. 

“Oh, Harvey, don*t! You will kill me. Don’t say 
it!” 

A gasp ended this outburst, the girl swayed and 
would have fallen, had not Mrs. Van Dine, who stood 
beside her, caught the lithe form in her arms. 

The strong fingers of the young athlete in the cell, 
clutched at the heavy iron bars convulsively. His 
eyes glittered like those of a caged beast, taunted 
and jabbed by a tormentor, which it is powerless to 
reach. 

“I will be brave for your sake, Harvey,** said the 
girl, faintly, after she had recovered herself, but her 
resolution was stronger than her powers. This time 


'Tll Marry You on the Gallows/" 233 


the sight of the two heroic women, who still retained 
their love for him when all the world held curses and 
no promise but that of death, proved too much for the 
self-control of even the hardened and imprisoned 
bandit. 

A sob that would not down, burst from him, and his 
head dropped to the arm which leaned against the cell 
door. His short, powerful frame shook with emotion. 

“My boy,"" cried Mrs. Van Dine, as she reached out 
to him through the bars. 

And “my boy"" moaned his sweetheart, her limp 
form falling against the grating. 

To these two women, the man before them was not 
the villainous, calloused murderer, the criminal, not 
the desperado, but — their boy. 

Their arms encircled his neck and they drew his face 
toward the bars. Kisses were showered upon his face 
and forehead and their tears mingled with his. In an 
instant, however, they were crying alone, as Van Dine 
drew himself together and stood back from the cell 
door. 

“Harvey, youVe done wrong,” sobbed his mother, 
^^you must pay the penalty — you must die."" 

The bandit stared stolidly at her. 

“Harvey, aren’t you sorry? I have nothing in my 


234 *Tll Marry You on the Gallows/' 


heart but love for you. You're my boy. You did 
wrong, but you must die." 

got that shirt you sent, mother. How about the 
other clothes." 

This was the bandit, the cool, heartless desperado. 
This was the man who could face bullets as well, or 
better, than tears. He began to talk of common-place 
things. For a time the spectre of death that had 
hovered before the trio seemed to have vanished. 

Then the remembrance returned with sweeping force 
and overwhelmed mother and sweetheart alike. 

“Good by — Good by. Til take care of ," said 

Mrs. Van Dine. “She’ll be my daughter, now. Oh, 
my son, are you ready to die?" 

Harvey Van Dine looked straight at his anguished 
parent. 

“Mother," he said, “I’ve made my confession. I’ve 
made a clean breast of the whole thing.’’ 

As in a somnambulent state, the two women then 
turned and walked toward the entrance. As she as- 
cended the stairs, Mrs. Van Dine was accosted by a 
friend. In answer to a sympathetic remark, she said: 

“You saw the snow fall this morning. A mother’s 
love is like that. It covers all faults, it covers every- 
thing; it covers all weaknesses— yes, even sin as black 
as night, 


'Tll Marry You on the Gallows." 235 

'‘My boy has done wrong— I know it— the world 
knows it. He must pay the penalty. In the eyes of 
the law he is a desperado — a murderer — but to me he 
can never be anything else than my own boy — my 
Harvey.’' 

“And to think that he was such a model boy at 
home ” said the friend, “he never caused you the 
slightest heartache.” 

Mrs. Van Dine raised her head. “Never,” she 
answered, with a mother’s triumphant belief in her own 
child. “Never. He was always tender, thoughtful and 
true to me — a loyal son and a faithful sweetheart to 
the girl of his choice. Even knowing his faults as we 
do, we can never think of him as other than the Harvey 
we knew at home.” 

Supporting the younger woman, the bandit’s mother, 
unheeding the glances of the morbid crowd which sur- 
rounded the police station, wended her way to a street- 
car and returned to her desolate home. 

As she left the cell-room, the turnkey heard Emil 
Roeske, who was confined in an adjoining cell, remark 
to his neighbor, Niedermeier: 

“Pretty fierce, wasn’t it,” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

SrEEDY PUNISHMENT PLANNED— MARX READY FOR GAL- 
LOWS AT ONCE — ASKS TO BE TRIED FIRST — AR- 
RAIGNED IN COURT — LAWYERS RETAINED — 
DYNAMITE FOUND NEAR JAIL. 

“Railroad them to the gallows.” 

This was the cry which went up in Chicago the day 
following the capture of the outlaws. The press de- 
manded it and the pulpit recommended it. The public 
stood as a unit for the immediate punishment of the 
four confessed slayers of innocent men — the four men 
who valued human life in pennies and dimes. 

Extraordinary precautions were taken to prevent a 
lynching, while the men were prisoners at the Harrison 
street lockup, and immediately after the formality of 
their arrangement in police court, where they were 
held to the criminal court on charges of murder in the 
first degree, they were taken to the county jail. The 
grand-jury made haste to vote indictments against 
them. 


( 236 ) 


Speedy Punishment Planned. 237 

When Marx was arraigned in police court he pleaded 
guilty. 

“Go ahead and make it short and hang me/’ he said. 

Attorneys retained by the families of the other men, 
in the face of their flat confessions, prevailed upon 
them to enter pleas of not guilty and this they did, 
although they treated the entire proceeding as a joke. 

'In the light of the fact, that all of the accused had 
made confessions. State’s Attorney Deneen and his 
aids arranged to have the trials take place simultan- 
eously, but counsel for Roeske managed to secure a 
separate trial for his man. 

Never in the history of Cook county, were such pre- 
cautions taken against the escape of prisoners as were 
put in force after the incarceration of the car-barn 
bandits and their companion in crime, Roeske. Never 
did such fear of the destruction of the jail enter the 
hearts of those intrusted with its guarding and man- 
agement. 

Repeated warnings, that the bandits were possessed 
of friends on the outside as desperate as they, reached 
Jailer Whitman and Sheriff Barrett. It was feared that 
an attack would be made during visiting hours and 
every man, woman and child who entered the jail was 


238 


Speedy Punishment Planned. 


examined before being permitted to enter that portion 
in which the desperadoes were confined. 

By night and by day, detectives hovered close to the 
jail and patrolled the streets in the neighborhood. 
Every pedestrian at night was compelled to give an 
account of himself and explain his presence in the 
vicinity. 

None but the relatives of the four youths, were al- 
lowed to visit them, and then only in the presence of 
several guards. The latter were heavily armed and 
bore instructions to act as they saw fit in case they 
detected anything suspicious in the actions either of the 
relatives or the prisoners. 

It was largely due to Assistant Chief Schuettler that 
these unusual precautions were taken. Having from 
the first been solely responsible for the discovery and 
capture of the bandits and the unraveling of the seem- 
ingly unfathomable car-barn mystery, the officer felt it 
his duty to keep his eye on the men whom he had 
brought within the very shadow of the gallows. 

'There won’t be much need of a trial,” said Schuet- 
tler. 'T have their signed confessions all tucked snugly 
away in a pigeon-hole In my desk. But I’ll tell you 
what the county jail people want to look out for. 
That’s this: those fellows have a lot of friends that 


Speedy Punishment Planned. 239 

fairly idolize them and glory in their deeds of blood. 
Hundreds of young fellows on the Northwest Side 
would actually change places with any of them at this 
time, just to obtain the notoriety that goes with it. 

‘’Some of these outsiders are crooks and some are 
not. Some of them are relatives.” 

In accordance with the recommendations of the As- 
sistant Chief, Jailer Whitman caused the prisoners to 
be separated from each other, so that communication 
was impossible between them. They were taken from 
the old and weaker section of the jail building, and 
placed in high cells in the strongest part of the massive 
stone pile which forms the new jail. 

All sorts of speculation was made concerning the 
probable manner in which the confessed murderers 
would seek to escape the gallows. Members of the 
legal profession in interviews, stated almost to a man, 
that there was not the slightest chance of any of the 
bandits escaping with a life sentence in the peniten- 
tiary. 

Mrs. Van Dine decided to make the hardest kind of 
a fight for her son^s life and engaged three lawyers. 
Each of the other prisoners had one attorney. Then 
it began to leak out that the brigands, with their 
damning confessions on record against them, and the 


240 Speedy Punishment Planned. 

blood of nearly a dozen men still red upon their hands, 
would seek to dodge death at the hands of the hang- 
man by means as audacious and unique as they had 
employed in committing the crimes which brought 
them to murderers^ row. 

Roeske was the first to come forward with a novel 
explanation of his terrible deeds. This, much to the 
amusement of several millions of people who had fol- 
lowed the story of the bandits in the daily prints, was 
nothing else than that he had been hypnotized by 
Niedermeier. 

The latter, declared Roeske, held him all during the 
career of the murderous band, completely under a spell. 
It seemed almost a joke, therefore, when the an- 
nouncement followed that Niedermeier intended to 
make his defence an insanity plea. Van Dine “stood 
pat,’^ and, like the others, seemed to consider the whole 
legal business a mere formality. Marx said nothing 
and left matters entirely in the hands of his lawyer, at 
whose suggestion he changed his plea of guilty to one 
of not guilty. The whole thing seemed a farce to the 
bandits themselves, who laughed grimly over the idea 
of a trial in a case like theirs. 

It was not by process of law, however, that these 
four desperadoes hoped to cheat the hangman. It 


Speedy Punishment Planned. 


241 


was by means more typical of the men — means which 
meant more murder. 

How silently and snake-like they set about plotting 
their escape, was shown a few days after their incarcer- 
ation in the county jail, when enough dynamite to re- 
duce the jail building to a crumbling pile, was found 
secreted in an alley near the structure. Who placed 
it there and what was the extent of the plan of which 
its hiding was a part, furnished a mystery which has 
not yet been solved. As time went on and nothing 
happened in the way of an attempted rescue, the ban- 
dits appeared worried and disappointed, indicating that 
they were parties to some kind of a desperate plan and 
that they fully expected liberation from the outside. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


NIEDERMEIER ATTEMPTS TO BRIBE GUARD WITH OFFER OF 

$25,000— ROESKE SAWS THROUGH BARS — PLAN OF 
ESCAPE DISCOVERED AND BROTHERS ARRESTED. 

Their crafty minds incessantly working on plans for 
escape, the imprisoned desperadoes spent little time 
in sleep after their confinement in the county jail. 
Knowing that they were constantly watched, however, 
they regularly sought their hard bunks at night and 
feigned slumber. All the time, however, they were 
turning over in their active brains the possibilities of 
gaining freedom from confinement, which they felt cer- 
tain must end in death on the gallows. 

They had admitted their guilt in the presence of 
scores of witnesses. Marx had affixed his signature 
to a confession implicating the entire band and the 
others had endorsed it boastfully. Of Marx’s confes- 
sion Van Dine had said: 

“Marx told the truth.” 

In the language of the street they ‘^could see their 


( 242 ) 


Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 243 


finish.” Their only hope of life lay in escape. No 
wonder that they pondered deeply and spent their en- 
tire time in calculation. 

Niedermeier was first to make the attempt. His was 
a clever scheme and but for the fact that the man whom 
he sought as an accomplice, happened to be honest and 
incorruptible, it would have resulted in success. 

One night Guard Donnelly was passing Nieder- 
meier’s cell when the latter called to him. 

^‘Oh, Harry, I want to talk to you,” he said. 

The guard paused upon the balcony and turned, 
facing the man within the grated cell. Niedermeier 
leered out at him, a fiendish smile playing about his 
lips. His attitude was one of eager expectancy. 

“Come closer, Harry, I want to say something to 
you.” 

Sternly the guard returned his gaze. 

“What do you want?” he asked. 

“I want to talk confidentially to you,” whispered 
Niedermeier. 

“I have no confidences with you,” returned Don- 
nelly. On second thought he approached the bars, 
believing that perhaps the bandit desired to volunteer 
some confession. 


244 Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 

‘‘Well, there’s something in it for you,” said Nieder- 
meier in a still lower tone. 

“How’s that?” 

“Well, I’m getting good and tired of staying here in 
jail and I think we can fix it up between us so I won’t 
have to be bothered any more.” 

“I don’t see how we could,” replied the guard, seek- 
ing to draw the prisoner on, fearing some plot was 
afoot. 

“Well, ril make you a money proposition,” the 
prisoner went on. “There’s just $25,000 in it for you 
if you get me out of here.” 

“How can I get you out,” queried Donnelly, repress- 
ing his astonishment at this unexpected turn in Nieder- 
meier’s conversation. 

“You leave that to me,” returned the prisoner. “All 
I say is that there is no need of you hanging around 
here for a few dollars a week, and there is no need of 
me staying in here. What do you say?” 

“But how can all this be done?” said Donnelly, with 
simulated interest as Niedermeier became more con- 
fidential. 

“As to getting out, you get me some old clothes and 
I’ll get them on and fix my face up all right so that 
they won’t know me. Then’ when we are out in the 


Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 245 

exercising room you just open the door and Fll walk 
out. I can get away in the old clothes without them 
recognizing me. They’ll think I’m a visitor. The job 
would be dead easy and you would have all the money 
you needed for some time.” 

'‘But” replied Donnelly, "that would be hard to do 
and besides, where would you get the $25,000?” 

"Leave that to me,” retorted Niedermeier, with a 
shake of his head. "I’ve made money before and I 
can make it again. I can make it so quick it would 
make your head swim.” 

"Have you got anybody on the outside who can get 
this money and turn it over at once?” asked Donnelly, 
drawing the man on. 

"No, I’ve got to get out to get it. And I’ll get it 
too. You know me.” 

"Well, ril think it over,” answered the gu^rd and 
then he went to Jailer Whitman and detailed to him 
the entire conversation. 

The guard about the cell of Niedermeier was imme- 
diately doubled. 

Shortly after this episode the dynamite was discov- 
ered with which it was believed confederates of the 
bandits intended to blow up the jail. Within the five 
days immediately following the arrest of the desper- 


246 Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 

adoes, twenty hold-ups occurred, in several of which, 
the victims were wounded or murdered, and this 
strengthened the opinion of the police regarding the 
outside connections of the quartette. 

It was only the breaking of a saw that prevented 
Roeske from executing a plan for jail delivery on a 
wholesale scale. A guard observed that he was rest- 
less and slept little. He walked over to the cell door 
and paused to look in. As he peered into the dark 
interior his hand rested against one of the heavy bars. 
To his astonishment it gave way before his touch. A 
jerk and he held in his hand an eighteen-inch section. 
Before him was a hole large enough to permit of thfe 
passage of a man^s body. 

Roeske leaped from his bunk and with bated breath 
glared at the man who had accidentally spoiled his plan 
of escape. Quickly drawing his revolver the guard 
covered the enraged prisoner. 

“You were just ready to quit, weren’t you?” he said. 

“Yes, and I may leave you yet,” shouted the des- 
perado as he glanced meaningly at the aperture. 

“Stand back from there or you’re a dead man,” com- 
manded the guard, and Roeske, cringing before the 
pistol, obeyed. The alarm was at once given and a 
careful examination of every cell in the jail was made, 


Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 247 

it being feared that the instrument with which the bar 
had been sawed had been passed along to other pris- 
oners by Roeske. 

No other tampering was discovered, however, and 
steps were immediately taken to discover by what 
means Roeske procured the saw with which he sun- 
dered the bar. He was obdurate when questioned and 
sullenly refused to say anything further than to curse 
the luck which had frustrated his carefully laid plan to 
escape. 

“More would have gone with me, too,’^ he declared 
defiantly. From this remark the jail authorities were 
convinced that Roeske intended to overpower the 
guard nearest him when he had gained the balcony, 
seize his weapons and keys and thus armed, release 
his companions in crime and hundreds of other pris- 
oners. 

Assistant Chief of Police Schuettler, with his usual 
readiness to ferret out the means and motives of crim- 
inals, hurried detectives to the Roeske residence as 
soon as he heard of the discovery of the sawed bar. 
His supposition proved correct, for when a trunk be- 
longing to Emil was broken open, it was found to con- 
tain elaborate plans, written and drawn in the hand of 


248 Niedermeier Attempts to Bribe Guard. 

the prisoner, for his escape from the jail with the aid 
of his brothers, Herman and Otto. 

The instructions and drawings, which had been sent 
through the mail, showed marked familiarity with the 
interior and exterior arrangement and environment of 
the jail. The scheme was for the two brothers to gain 
the roof of a neighboring building, place a ladder from 
the coping across the alley to the window nearest 
Roeske’s cell and signal to the prisoner. Then was to 
begin the dash for liberty which in all probability would 
have furnished the most bloody battle in history. 

The Roeske boys were immediately arrested and 
held for trial, charged with attempting to liberate their 
brother. Roeske persistently refused to tell who 
brought him the saw with which he cut the bar and 
with which it is supposed he expected his companions 
and other prisoners to do likewise. 

“If it hadn’t broken on me, you would have seen 
some fun,” declared the desperado. “I threw the 
pieces in the butter and they went out that way.” 


CHAPTER XXXL 


THE TWENTIETH CENTURY CRIME — ^THE TRIAL AND 
CONVICTION — "guilty/" 

By a strange coincidence, it required a month of 
time, and the expenditure of thousands of dollars before 
a jury could be impanelled to sit in judgment on the 
notorious desperadoes ; and, the same length of time for 
their trial. Roeske, not having been implicated in the 
car-barn tragedy, was held in jail, while Marx, Van 
Dine and Niedermeier went into court on the charge of 
having jointly been responsible for the murder of 
Cashier Stewart and Motorman Johnson. 

Assistant State’s Attorney Olson and Fletcher 
Dobyns, indefatigable workers and prosecutors of great 
resource, took charge of the case for the state, and 
George M. Popham, representing Marx, C. C. Bartlett 
and S. C. Irving, defending Van Dine, and H. C. Walsh 
and Ninian Welch, representing Niedermeier. 

It was on the morning of January 6, that the bandits 
were led from the jail into the court-room of Judge 
( 249 ) 


250 The Twentieth Century Crime 

Kersten, in the big criminal court building, there to 
make their pleas. 

A sardonic leer, a devilish grin disfigured the already 
brutak countenances of the three outlaws, as they an- 
swered the terrible charge with which they were con- 
fronted. 

Such a travesty upon truth, such a burlesque of all 
sense of morality and justice had never before shocked 
the public, and as their perjured answer “Not Guilty” 
echoed through the court room, a sense of disgust took 
possession of the spectators and their feeling of repul- 
sion could not be repressed. 

The same lips which so complacently answered “Not 
Guilty,” had not many hours before boastfully confessed 
to crime after crime, murder after murder, needlessly, 
recklessly, wantonly committed for the sake of a few 
paltry dollars. 

From that moment until the end of the trial, the 
court room was crowded to suffocation with a strange 
mingling of persons. The painted woman of the street, 
the bejeweled society queen, far apart in point of social 
station, but on a common level in the possession of a 
morbid mind, eagerly drank in the disgustingly awful 
details. 

The prisoners had sought to appear at their best to 


The Twentieth Century Crime. 261 

the throng of curiosity seekers, whose misdirected 
sympathies they knew would be concentrated upon 
them. 

While the jury was being drawn, the desperadoes 
grinned and laughed. Man after man, score upon score 
of good citizens, went upon the stand and declared 
their unfitness to serve as impartial jurors. All held 
opinions. All were familiar with the hideous details 
of the crimes of the men before them and they looked 
upon them with loathing and disguit. 

Day after day, a seemingly endless stream of venire- 
men were examined. Occasionally one would be found 
who thought it possible to set his opinions aside and 
as a juror act fairly and impartially. After twenty- 
eight days, all of the twelve chairs were filled and the 
battle was on; a battle for the lives of three youths 
who had boasted of having slain almost a dozen men. 

On February 8, Assistant State’s Attorney Olson 
arose and faced the jury. Simply and forcefully, he 
painted for them the terrible picture which by the sworn 
testimony of dozens of witnesses, he intended to prove 
was accurate in every detail. Then the lawyers for the 
defense made their feeble opening statements and the 
fight began in earnest. 

It was at this point, that the bandits felt the grim 


252 The Twentieth Century Crime. 

reality of their position. For the first time they realized 
that they were actually on the threshold of the gallows. 
As might have been expected of men of their stamp, 
they wilted. 

Hardly had the proceedings begun, before Marx cast 
consternation into the camp of his former companions, 
by coldly deserting them. Attorney Popham, in the 
hope of saving Marx from the extreme penalty of the 
law, offered his client to the State as a witness against 
Van Dine and Niedermeier. It was argued that he had 
been the first to confess, and that had it not been for 
his confession after slaying Detective Quinn, a knowl- 
edge of the other criminals and their capture would 
have been impossible. 

Knowing, however, that he had an irrefutable case 
against all of the murderers, Mr. Olson spurned the 
offer of Marx with contempt. From that time on. 
Attorney Popham took little part in the proceedings and 
the frightened Van Dine and Niedermeier leered vic- 
iously across the table at Marx, muttering curses at 
him for his traitorous conduct. 

Before introducing the confessions of the three men, 
the State wove a direct and circumstantial chain of evi- 
dence around the bandits, which in itself, was sufficient 
to convict, Witnesses were brought from distant cities 


The Twentieth Centuey Crime. 253 

and states to corroborate the statements of the two hun- 
dred honest men who had contributed to the web which 
was woven in terrible meshes about the necks of the 
three cowardly prisoners. The defense fought hard 
against the admission of the confessions, but to no 
avail. It then directed its efforts toward showing that 
the confessions had been extorted. This contention was 
shattered to infinitesimal fragments by such men as 
Mayor Harrison, Chief of Police O’Neill, Alderman 
Badenoch, Assistant Chief Schuettler and a host of 
policemen, detectives and newspaper reporters, who re-- 
counted for the benefit of the jury, the eager, bragga- 
docio manner in which the young murderers had told 
of their crimes. 

Meanwhile, there was great fear in the minds of the 
authorities that an attempt to rescue the prisoners would 
be made. Anonymous letters threatening his life were 
sent to Jailor John L. Whitman. A man arose in court 
and shouted to the jury that if they brought in a ver- 
dict of “guilty,” they would be assassinated, but before 
he could be captured he escaped from the room. The 
daily presence of a number of suspicious characters in 
the court-room, was noted by city detectives; Mrs. 
Niedermeier, who with Mrs. Marx, Mrs. Van Dine and 
Harvey’s sweetheart, was a daily attendant at the trial, 


254 The Twentieth Century Crime. 

shrieked and fought when efforts were made to search 
her before entering the court-room. 

One day, a pair of scissors and a nail file were taken 
from her. On another day a woman friend of Van Dine 
was detected in the act of attempting to smuggle a file 
into the court-room. Armed guards paced the halls and 
detectives were stationed at various parts of the room, 
where, at a moment’s notice, they could quell any at- 
tempt at rescue. 

One day a magazine pistol protruded from the pocket 
of a bailiff seated near Niedermeier and the desperado 
reached for it, but the officer was too quick for him. 
On another occasion a pistol fell from the pocket of a 
policeman, and but for the prompt action of guards, 
Van Dine would have seized it, undoubtedly intending 
to make a dash for liberty. 

With the fate looming up before them in ghastly 
outline, the bandits day by day became more panic 
stricken. They grew surly and disgruntled ; proof even 
against the world-renowned methods of Jailor John L. 
Whitman, “Tamer of Men,” a man who stands at the 
head of his profession, admired by criminologists, 
clergy, public, scientists and prisoners alike. 

Even Whitman, the man for whom many of the most 
ignorant, desperate felons would lay down their life — 


The Twentieth Century Crime. 


255 


as has been shown on occasions too numerous to men- 
tion — could not purge the deviltry from these '‘penny 
slayers’’ of men. 

In three weeks, the State had completed its case and 
the lawyers for Van Dine and Niedermeier began their 
futile attempt to show that their clients should not be 
hanged. 

Van Dine, through his mother and a few other wit- 
nesses, attempted to show that he was an epileptic, but 
aside from the testimony of Mrs. Van Dine, the testi- 
mony was of the weakest character. Even her story 
as to the existence of insanity among Harvey’s antece- 
dents was torn to pieces by an honest, patriarchial old 
man from Newark, O., one Dennis Speer, who had 
known the family for some sixty years, who contra- 
dicted Mrs. Van Dine in most all of her statements. 

Paul Niedermeier, brother of Peter, was to have tes- 
tified that he slept at home with “Pete” on the night of 
the car-barn robbery and murders, but he deserted his 
relative at the last moment and the defense crumbled 
to dust. 

On March 3, the closing argument for the prosecu- 
tion was begun. Mr. Dobyns was followed by the law- 
yers for the defendants and on March . . the jury re- 
tired for their final verdict and in minutes the 


256 The Twentieth Century Crime. 

twelve men filed back into the box. A stillness as of 
death settled over the crowded court-room. 

The three bandits, with bulging eyes and heaving 
breasts, their fingers in a feverish clutch on the arms of 
their chairs, were like so many statues typifying terror 
in its wildest form. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a 
verdict ?” 

It was the tense voice of the clerk, as he submitted 
the formal question. 

“We have,” replied the Foreman. 

A bailiff walked to the speaker and took from him 
a document; a document which would decide the fate 
of the most despicable murderers that have ever faced 
a jury ; the bailiff handed it to the clerk still folded, who 
opened the paper and read : 

“We, the jury, find the defendants — Peter Nie= 
dermeier, Harvey Van Dine and Gustave Marx — 
guilty of murder in the form and manner as 
charged, and fix the penalty at death.” 

As the dreaded words which sounded the doom 
of the bandits fell from the lips of the clerk, the 
twelve jurors who had given two weary months 
of their time to the serving cf outraged justice, 
now haggard and weary, set their jaws, and 


The Twentieth Century Crime 257 

gazed upon the culprits whose death they had 
decreed. 

The jury had been out just twenty-two hours 
and ten minutes, and so intensely had they ap- 
plied themselves to the grave duty imposed upon 
them that sleep had failed to visit their weary 
eyes for twenty-four long hours, and food had 
scarcely been tasted. Their faces were haggard 
and drawn; their eyes were dull, and the awful 
strain they had undergone told plainly upon their 
countenances. 

The three murderers stood before Judge Ker- 
sten and faced the jur}^ The courtroom was 
thronged. As the clerk’s words died away 
Van Dine’s sallow face grew a shade paler. His 
hands beat nervously upon his chair. Nieder- 
meier grinned sardonically. Marx bowed his 
head and his lips moved as if in prayer. The 
trio, no longer objects of public curiosity, no 
longer the subjects of maudlin sympathy on the 
part of morbid curious women, were led back to 
the big, gray jail, there to await the day when 
they should leave it for the last time. 

When the verdict had been read, a broken- 


258 


The Twentieth Century Crime 


hearted parent started forward in her chair, but 
she quickly reg^ained her composure, and with a 
firm tread, she left the court room. The mother 
of one of the other bandits, for an hour after the 
fatal word “guilty” had been spoken, stood like 
a statue, seemingly unable to comprehend the 
fatal decision. 

In another part of the city, still another mother 
waited for the final word; with anxious fears, hop- 
ing against hope, the news reached her. 

The court tendered thanks to the jurors for 
their diligence, patience and fortitude. 

It was only, however, after a long and exhaustive 
discussion that the jury made its final decision. It 
retired at 12:15 o’clock on the afternoon of Friday, 
March 11th, and at once began its deliberations. 
Hour after hour passed, and no word came from 
the locked room until toward the hours of mid- 
night when a request for further instruction was 
sent to Judge Kersten. 

From this, it was therefore concluded by those 
on the outside, that the jury had disagreed on the 
question of clemency for Marx. After the render- 
ing of the verdict, however, at five minutes past 10 
o’clock Saturday morning, it was learned to the 
astonishment of the entire city, that one juror had 
held out in the interests of Van Dine, whom he 


The Twentieth Century Crime 


259 


thought deserved consideration for refraining from 
murdering the wounded Edmond at the car barns. 

In his cell, Emil Roeske, awaiting trial for the 
murder of Otto Bauder, heard the verdict in 
silence ; but one thing he did not hear, and that 
was the grim voice of public sentiment: 

“Now for Roeske!” 

The curtain has fallen. The drama is ended ; 
but behind the scenes, a mother, and a sweetheart, 
crushed and heartbroken, wrestled in bitterness 
and agony of spirit. Dry eyed widows and orphans, 
destitute and alone, enter upon a weary struggle 
for an existence, while within their cells, three 
misguided wretches await the doom that Fate 
has decreed for them. 

The law has demanded and received compen- 
sation; Justice has declared its sentence, and the 
“Automatic Gun Trio” now await the call to ap- 
pear before a Higher Court, — a bar before which 
they must stand, self condemned, as they an 
swer “Guilty.” 


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